


The Moth & the Lighthouse

by LotusFlair



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Lighthouse, LonelyMartin, M/M, Memory Loss, Moth!Jon, MothJon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusFlair/pseuds/LotusFlair
Summary: Martin was content being the Lonely Lord of the Lighthouse, a minor noble in the Forsaken Court at the edge of the Pale Sea. Then a Moth arrived, injured and in need of help, and Martin's life changed forever.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 234
Kudos: 570





	1. Enter, the Moth

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this is going, but the journey might be fun? I have no idea how long this one will be, but I got the idea and I wanted to play around with it. My version of a fairy tale. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading my inane ideas.
> 
> You can find me on Twitter @darling_sammy and check out my website, POP Archives, @ www.pop-archives.com

In the worlds beyond worlds, in the lands beyond the veil between humans and most otherworldly creatures is the Fae Realm. It is not an easy place to live, but what place is? To those who inhabit Faerie, it is home and so they survive how best they can. It is a realm divided between fourteen domains, each ruled by a powerful and distinguished Court. Should humans ever pierce the veil and fall into Faerie, there are some domains that are far more preferable to enter than others. Likewise, there are certain type of humans some domains prefer to attract.

For instance, in the Desolate Waste, the Court of the Lightless Flame seeks only the most fearsome and destructive of acolytes. Imps run wild as they seek out new hearts to inflame and devious minds to ensnare in the roaring cacophony of ruination. It is as much the work of the poor soul who enters their domain as it is the denizens of the fiery landscape when they immolate themselves before the Great Pyre, seeking only acceptance. Their reward is a love that burns brightly and smolders forever within charred vessels covered in wax. Beautiful candles to keep the home fires alight. Conversely, in the Hollow Swamp, the Court of Sunken Sky merely encourages a long rest within the bosom of the earth. Many a weary visitor has found themselves slogging through the swamp only to find the effort fruitless as they simply allow themselves to be consumed by mud and damp soil.

Our story, however, begins on the edge of the Pale Sea, domain of the Forsaken Court. It is an ocean eternally covered in fog an mist. Those unlucky enough to enter the realm unsupervised can easily find themselves lost and alone. No amount of shouting or yelling or calling will bring rescue and as the minutes turn to hours turn to days turn to years it seems the memory of such endeavors becomes lost as well. But not all is dismal and upsetting on the Pale Sea. Like any domain, there is a safe harbor for those who can find their way. On the Pale Sea there is a lighthouse and its beacon is bright and warm and inviting. In the lighthouse lives the Lighthouse Keeper, the Lonely Lord known to those who knew him as Martin.

Martin wasn't sure if that was his real name. He never bothered to question what others within the Forsaken Court addressed him by. All he knew of himself, with any certainty, was his position as Keeper of the Lighthouse, his preference for tea, and his general pleasant demeanor. He was happy to have visitors and always felt sad when they left, but then the fog would roll over him and he'd return to his cozy nook and wait for the next new face to seek out his hospitality. Memory was a fleeting thing on the Pale Sea and Martin was content to keep hold of the memories he could even as more of them slipped away. Better to be a friendly face, a positive steward of the Court's solitary customs rather than dwell on what could not be changed. No, Martin told himself that he was fine with his circumstances. It was what he wanted, what he had invited into his heart. And if his mind began to wonder about who he was before the Lighthouse, the fog would gently wash those thoughts away.

It was in one of these newly uncluttered moments of thought that Martin found himself sitting in his nook about to drink some tea and enjoy the book at the edge of the table. The book cover looked well-worn, the paper smudged and used, though the previous owner had left quite a few pages dogeared.

"Huh...must have been some favorite passages," he mumbled to himself. "Suppose I'll find out what was so special once I get there."

Excited to start a new book, Martin began to read. He was roughly forty pages into an intriguing tale of love on the high seas when the Moth barrelled through the window.

Now, when I say Moth, do not think of the insects you might come across attached to your windows or fluttering about the streetlamps. In Faerie, Moths, like a great many Fae Folk, maintain a human-like figure. This Moth in particular was dark of skin and hair, his wings rapidly disappearing to form into a thick coat that fit snugly over his tunic and trousers. The coat was colored with browns, greys, whites, and a smattering of yellowish spots that recalled the intense stare of an owl. His feathery antennae limply fell against his blood-streaked face where watery eyes the color of emeralds stared at Martin in fearful anticipation. Were it not for the blood and broken glass strewn about the room, Martin might have taken a moment to remark on the Moth's beauty.

Instead, he shouted, "Are you alright?! Where did you come from?!"

Three of the Moth's four arms formed a protective barrier around his middle, the free arm extended as a warning for Martin to remain at a distance. From where he stood, Martin could see the bloody wound in the Moth's stomach and he knew it was not a wound that could have been acquired from crashing through a glass window.

"You're wounded," Martin said. "Please, let me help--"

"I invoke...I invoke..." the Moth said, breathlessly. His eyes drooped as he fought to remain conscious.

Martin knelt on the floor despite the glass, his hands raised in supplication. "It's alright. It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you."

"I invoke..." the Moth repeated.

"Oh, yes, of course!" Martin exclaimed. "My Lord Moth, I invite you into my Lighthouse. While you are here, you are under my protection and subject to my hospitality. No harm will come to you. No food or drink will ensnare you. You have my Word as Keeper of the Lighthouse."

Magic rippled through the room as the invocation was set into place. The Moth, satisfied that he was indeed safe within the confines of the Lighthouse, allowed his body to fully collapse on the floor.

"Thank you," the Moth said and promptly passed out.

"Oh..." Martin breathed. He set to work quickly, lifting the Moth and carrying him into the bedroom.

He removed the coat, placing it nearby in case the Moth woke and needed visual proof of its existence. From the nearby cupboard, Martin pulled the necessary herbs, tinctures, and bandages. Cutting the tunic away, he could see the angry wound - a series of slashes across his belly. It was a familiar pattern, something the imps of the Lightless Flame would employ when fighting. Why a Moth would be in the Desolate Waste was a question for another time, but he could feel it take root in the back of his mind. With practice born of past travelers in need of care, Martin washed the wounds, applied the medicine, and wrapped the injured belly. He kept a close eye on the Moth as he worked, but the poor creature remained unconscious through the entire process. When he was satisfied with the completed work, Martin poured a few drops of a sleeping draught in the Moth's mouth to help his body heal.

When he heard the Moth sigh and relax into sleep, Martin set about sweeping up the glass and fixing the window. Easy enough for the Lonely Lord. There wasn't a part of the Lighthouse that hadn't been damaged in the course of helping those in need of escape. He knew all the tricks to put his home back together, the one place where he held the power to repair what was broken. When the new tasks were completed, Martin sat in his nooks, looking across the room at where the Moth lay sleeping. He would wake in his own time, but Martin was content to wait. He was good at waiting.

Knowing he would have a guest to entertain at an uncertain point in time, Martin decided to get some reading done in the interim. His tea was still untouched, cold until he reheated it with a quick wave of his hand. He picked up the book laid in the center of the table. The cover looked well-worn, the paper smudged and used, though the previous owner had left quite a few pages dogeared.

"Huh...must have been some favorite passages," he mumbled to himself. "Suppose I'll find out what was so special once I get there."

Opening to the first page, he began to read.


	2. What's in a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Moth recovers and receives a name.

Three days passed before the Moth was recovered enough to wake. In that time, Martin puttered around the Lighthouse doing as was expected of a Lonely Lord. He kept the light shining brightly over the Pale Sea. He rang the bell that might alert lost souls to safe harbor and calm waters. He looked out over the fog with his eyeglass only to find no one adrift. At least not at the moment. Most humans who entered the domain of the Forsaken Court were unaware of their plight until it was too late. Most Fae, however, were capable of discerning the boundaries between domains. Traveling through the Forsaken lands was dicey even for those with the knowledge and wherewithal to understand the consequences of sailing on the Pale Sea. 

So how did he come by a Moth as a guest?

Moths were not an unknown species of Fae Folk, but their terrain was mostly limited to the Panopticon, seat of the Court of Beholding. It was rumored that Moths were born with all of the knowledge of the world, but it was hard to corroborate such stories when Moths rarely left their home domain. Beholding wasn't considered a cruel Court, but it was a greedy one, hoarding information like dragons protecting a king's ransom in gold.

Martin once entertained the thought of traveling to the Panopticon to see for himself the towering monument to intelligence and wisdom, but the fog gently caressed his mind and he realized it was a waste of time. Too much planning, too much effort involved in keeping the Lighthouse cared for in his absence. What could he possibly learn in such an intimidating building that would be of value? He'd probably come off as a bothersome presence. They'd likely know that he was out of his element the moment he set foot inside. No, better to stay in the Lighthouse and be of use rather than a nuisance to those doing important work.

With a Moth now in his home perhaps some of his questions could be answered if only to quell his dampened curiosity.

These thoughts surfaced throughout the Moth's long sleep. On the third day, Martin was in the kitchen, taste testing a stew that had been simmering since the early morning. A rich flavor of beef and spices landed on his tongue when he heard a loud CLICK. There, on the counter top near the stove, was a tape recorder. Technology was a subject of discontent among the Fae Folk, but more and more humans arrived with such odd equipment when they shambled past the veil. This recorder looked much older than the devices Martin had seen recently, probably something that might have been in use a few decades ago, though time was a rather fluid thing within the domains. Passing through Forsaken into the Crawling Rot might take a few hours only for the return trip to take several days. One poor sprite remarked that their journey between the Unknowing and the Falling Titan robbed them of nearly a decade.

Realizing he'd gotten off course in his thoughts, Martin shook his head and inspected the newly spawned piece of machinery.

"Where did you come from?" Martin asked. The recorder didn't answer except to continue turning its reels. It was then that he heard a loud THUD as if something, or someone, had fallen. The THUD was followed by a weak cry and Martin understood that his guest was in need of some help. Abandoning the spoon to the stew pot, Martin grabbed the recorder and hurried up the stairs to the upper living area.

The Moth lay on the floor by the bed, the blanket having tangled up his legs, which likely led to the fall. He righted himself quickly, only using two arms to protect his wounded belly. His emerald eyes regarded Martin with distrust and fear.

"Stay - stay back," the Moth said, an idle warning in his voice.

"It's alright, my Lord Moth, I've already invoked my hospitality and protection," Martin explained. "You're safe here."

"Where - where am I?" he asked.

"My Lighthouse at the edge of the Pale Sea," Martin answered. "Far side of the Forsaken, depending on your point of view."

"I was - I was...why can't I...?"

The Moth struggled to remember, a common malady within the Forsaken Court for those unaccustomed. Martin attempted to move closer, but the Moth was quick to notice. Once again, Martin knelt down, showing his motivations to be friendly. He would've remarked that he held no weapons that could be used against the Moth until he realized the recorder was still held in his tight grip.

"Oh, sorry, I think - I think this must be yours?" Martin said, showing the device to the Moth. Hesitantly, he reached out, snatching the recorder and holding it tight to his chest. "Your coat's right over there as well. I had to remove it to tend to your wounds. Would you like it back?"

"Please," the Moth pleaded, breathlessly.

"I'll need to stand. It's rather uncomfortable kneeling and my knees-"

"Yes, yes," the Moth said, impatiently. Martin found himself smiling at the sudden mood shift. Rising to his feet, the Moth's eyes narrowed on him as he picked up the coat of browns, greys, whites, and an owl's stare and gently offered it back. Like the recorder, the Moth liberated the coat from Martin's grasp, satisfied that all of his personal effects were now on his person.

"Well, now that all of your hands are preoccupied, shall I move you back to the bed?" Martin asked.

The Moth's face fell as he realized his mistake. There was the briefest look of fear that shifted into uncertainty and finally settled on annoyance. With a heavy sigh, the Moth slumped in resignation; his feathered antennae flapping over his eyes.

"Fine," he huffed. "I suppose I'm in need of some assistance."

Martin kept his face clear of any signs of his amusement. He leaned down and carefully gathered the Moth in his arms. He was either surprisingly light or Martin had forgotten his own strength. Not unheard of, but still a bit of a shock for them both when Martin nearly capsized for assuming a certain amount of weight that didn't exist. The Moth's arms that had been designated shields for his wounded belly, hooked around Martin's neck in reaction as he regained his balance.

The Moth's face was very close to his. The touch of his calloused fingers on his neck sent shivers down Martin's spine. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him. Even if the Moth was doing so out of self-preservation, Martin felt a surge of sensations he'd lost the words to long ago. He felt the blush of embarrassment, and something more, heat up his face and the Moth responded with a frown of lesser annoyance.

"Sorry 'bout that," Martin said.

"It's fine," the Moth said. "Just...on the bed, if you would?"

Martin gently deposited the Moth on the bed, watching as he placed the tape recorder on the nightstand and fumbled indecisively with the coat.

"I'd like to check your wound before you get too comfortable," Martin said. "I also have some stew simmering in the kitchen if you're hungry?"

The Moth sighed, but set his coat aside, though still close on the bed. He nodded, allowing Martin to unwrap the bandages over his bare belly. The wounds still looked a little inflamed, but there was no sign of infection as far as Martin could discern. Just to be sure, he prodded the area lightly, stopping immediately when he heard the Moth's sharp intake of breath.

"Sorry, but I needed to make sure it wasn't infected," Martin said. "These wounds were fairly deep. Can't imagine getting stabbed by the Lightless Flame and having the energy to escape."

Martin brought over more herbs and bandages, applying the medicinal oils with great care before wrapping the wounds again.

"Wasn't the Lightless Flame," the Moth said. "It was...It was...I can't - why can't I remember?"

"It's okay, Master Moth, it'll come back to you, if you want it," Martin said.

"What does that mean?"

"Memory works differently here," Martin explained as he tied off the wrappings. "You have to _want_ to remember something in order for it to stay put. Trauma is usually harder to hold on to since most folk find it easier to forget."

"Well I don't want to forget!' the Moth shouted. "Forgetting isn't an option. Not for me!"

Martin frowned at the Moth's tone. There was as much fear as there was anger.

"Take your time, then," Martin said. "If you want the memory, it'll come back."

Not entirely placated, the Moth closed his eyes and set his jaw at a rigid angle. He was silent, concentrating in a way that was utterly foreign to Martin. Of course, Martin had never applied much effort to remembering things. If it was gone, then it was either unimportant or too hurtful to hold on to. Why anyone would want to remember something painful was beyond his ability to comprehend. At least it was until this moment as the Moth's concentration proved fruitful.

There was a slight gasp from the Moth as he said, "The Risen War. It was their people."

"And you were in the Slaughtered Fields because...?"

"That I don't want to talk about," the Moth said. "I remember, but...no."

"Fair enough," Martin said. "But progress, right, Lord Moth?"

"Please don't call me that," the Moth said, quickly.

"What?"

"Those honorifics you've used. Lord. Master. I'm none of those things. I'm just a Moth."

"Alright. What's your name then?"

The Moth looked at him with a confused expression. "I'm a Moth."

"Yes, I gathered that."

"Moths don't have names," he said, matter-of-factly. "Moths work in the Panopticon. We are of the Panopticon and therefore we are the Panopticon."

Martin sputtered for a moment, unable to put into words his outrage. "Well that's not right! You should have a name! How do you address each other? How do you know when someone wants to talk to you specifically?"

Now the Moth was confused. "No one talks to us. We just make sure the knowledge goes to it designated area. That's what we're referred by if there are any issues."

"Okay, what's your designated area?" Martin asked.

"All knowledge, information, data, etc. that corresponds to reference letter J. All indexes, appendices, subject headings, cross-reference, and keywords are subject to categorization under said reference letter," the Moth repeated as if a strange muscle memory had taken over to expel his message. Martin felt his frown deepen at the thought of an entire structure filled with nameless Moths serving only the needs of the building and nothing else.

"Well I need to call you something other than Moth. That's just rude," Martin said. He paused, thinking about the options available while the Moth continued to stare with quiet fascination. "If you're in the J-section, then why not go with something familiar? What about...Jack?"

The Moth's antennae curled back in displeasure.

"Okay...Jerry?"

The same response.

"Justin? Jeremy? Jamaal? Jephthah? Jubal? Jacob? Jayanta?"

"You know a lot of J-names," the Moth commented.

Martin shrugged. "I've been around a while. Forsaken people have names. None of those work for you?"

The Moth shook his head. Martin sighed, taking in another breath.

"Um...Joel? Johann? Javier? Jurgen? Jonah? Jonathan?"

The antennae perked up at the last one.

"Jonathan? You like that one?"

"It sounds...nice. Almost familiar," he said.

Martin smiled. "Alright, Jonathan. May I call you Jon as well?"

"You've given me a name and you already want to shorten it?" the Moth asked, incredulously.

Martin chuckled. "Nicknames are common as well. Some folk call me Marty or Marto. Or I assume they did, once."

"Fine," the Moth agreed. "Jonathan or Jon will suffice while I'm a guest in your home."

Martin stuck out his hand. "Welcome to my Lighthouse, Jon. It's lovely to meet you."

A light blush colored Jon's already dark skin, but he reached out all of his hands, one on top of the other on top of Martin's. It was an odd picture, but Martin smiled like it was absolutely normal and Jon found himself smiling as well.

"It's lovely to meet you as well, Martin."


	3. Words, Words, Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Moth, I mean Jon, and Martin get to know each other a little better.

Martin stared at himself in the mirror. It was an activity he tried to avoid when he could, but the mornings brought about the necessity to groom himself after another night's fitful sleep. The dreams faded quickly thanks to the fog, but they lingered in the back of his mind like an itch in need of scratching that was just out of reach. Jon was almost fully recovered, but was proving himself to be a stubborn guest as he insisted on doing things without help whenever the option was presented. Martin didn't like to hover, but he was concerned that the stomach wound wasn't completely healed even after applying the proper medicines and care. Jon insisted he was fine and continued to overexert himself despite Martin's warnings.

The chief bone of contention between them was Jon's refusal to remain in the master bedroom. Martin had offered to take the guest room since it was on the lower level of the Lighthouse. Getting anywhere else from the guest room required taking a few flights of stairs and Martin couldn't stand the idea of Jon exhausting himself just to eat breakfast. Jon, however, was having none of it. As the guest he belonged in the guest room and no other argument would convince him otherwise. He seemed to think he'd already broken some cardinal rule of guest etiquette by having the audacity to occupy Martin's bed while being injured, never mind his rather forceful entry into the Lighthouse to begin with. Martin learned quickly that Jon was a force of nature when it came to his inability to budge on a topic.

"Are all Moths as stubborn as you?" he asked.

Jon thought for a moment before shrugging. "Moths aren't encouraged to talk to each other. We just serve the Panopticon."

Martin left it at that. It almost seemed cruel not to let Jon exercise his tenacity, which he knew he'd regret later.

Later was now as he wiped the condensation from the mirror and ran a comb through his damp hair. He thought about whether his hair had always been that sandy shade of brown. Were his eyes always a dull grey? Had his skin ever been anything other than pale and ashen? Had his nose always bent ever so slightly to the left? Did he break his nose at some point? When did that happen? Who broke his nose and would they do it again? The questions vanished quickly when he heard several loud CLUNKS in rapid succession from one of the rooms below. Rushing to put on trousers and a jumper, Martin followed the noise to the second level, entering the study as Jon threw three more books from the top shelf of the bookcase to the floor.

"Jon! What are you doing?" Martin asked, frantically.

Rather than use the step ladder to his right, Jon was fluttering at the top of the bookcase while his arms acted in sync and independently of him to skim through the books before allowing gravity to dispose of them on the floor when he was done. Surprisingly, though his wings were flapping rapidly, Martin, as close as he was, felt no air movement or disruption.

"Oh, Martin! Good morning!" Jon said, cheerfully. "I thought I'd sample your library."

"S-sample?" Martin said. Picking up one of the books, he noticed small tears in the pages as though they'd been pinched and ripped by deft hands. "Jon, you can't just damage someone's belongings like this."

Jon looked at him with a sour expression. "How else am I going to know if the work is good or not?"

"You could read it!"

"But I already know what happens," Jon said, matter-of-factly.

"You do?"

"Yes. I know what happens in all of these books," Jon said.

"How?"

"I'm a Moth," Jon said as if that was answer enough. "I Know everything."

"So it's true then?" Martin asked. Jon nodded, though he didn't look entirely certain about what question he appeared to be answering. "Okay, but if you already know what happens in the book, then why do you need to know if it tastes good?"

"You know what ingredients go into a stew, right?" Jon asked as he flung a large volume of poetry to the floor. Wincing at the loud THUD, Martin nodded. "Well, that doesn't mean you know how the stew actually tastes. Maybe you've burnt the meat or over salted the thing. You won't know until you've actually had a bite to judge its true merits. Paper and ink are like that for me. Can't judge the author until I know how well they put the ingredients together."

"Something tells me that's not a standard practice in the Panopticon," Martin commented. Jon's arms stopped moving as his posture straightened in a moment of terror. It passed just as quickly, but the pace of his movements slowed considerably. Martin saw one of the arms visibly trembling.

"The Panopticon doesn't see as much as it claims to," Jon murmured.

"Right," Martin said as he turned over a detective novel with a sizable tear taken from the middle pages, "could you at least be mindful of my things? I haven't read any of these books yet!"

Jon stopped again, curious and confused eyes alight as they assessed Martin. He could almost feel Jon's gaze, like a heavy pressure against his mind. It wasn't unpleasant, just odd like an invisible hug. When it lifted, he tried not to dwell on the feelings of sadness that chased after the disappearing force.

"Yes, you have," Jon said.

"What?" Martin said. "No, I haven't."

"You have, though," Jon said. He fluttered to the floor, wings tucking in as they reformed into a much sleeker coat with a very familiar pattern. Martin frowned at the lack of fluff, but fashion wasn't his forte. Jon picked up what appeared to be a romance novel set on the high seas. "You've read this one fifteen times."

"No...I only got that book a few days ago," Martin said. Jon pointed to the many dogeared pages.

"You saved your page every time you were interrupted," Jon said. He held out the book to show Martin only to notice the shocked expression on the Lonely Lord's face. "Martin...I...I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to..."

"Breakfast," Martin said. It was the only thing he could think to say. "I'm going to make breakfast."

He walked out of the study before Jon could say another word. The cold comfort of the Lighthouse wrapped around him as he entered the kitchen. The fog whispered and soothed his anxiety, but the thoughts remained. He couldn't quite lose hold of them while Jon was around. It was better to put his focus and energy into something else, something distracting enough that his thoughts would take a backseat to the familiar motions of the task. Usually that meant cooking, cleaning, or making his rounds about the Lighthouse. Right now, breakfast was his highest priority.

He was almost finished making a batch of porridge when he felt the air in the room shift. Jon stood in the doorway, antennae drooping around his eyes, fidgeting nervously. Martin smiled, beckoning him in with a friendly wave.

"It's alright, Jon," Martin said. "Food's nearly done."

Jon silently slunk to the table, his top arms set in patient repose while the lower arms hugged his middle, fingers drumming impatiently along his sides. Martin filled two bowls with the thick porridge, setting them on the table with silverware, a cup of milk, honey, and a ramekin of sugar. While Jon doctored up his porridge, Martin put the kettle on and prepared two cups of tea. He snuck a look over his shoulder, watching Jon use all of his hands to put more sugar into his breakfast than seemed palatable and even then there was a dissatisfied expression on his face as he took a quick taste. He couldn't help the smile that formed. There was something so endearingly awkward about Jon. They'd only known each other a few days, most of that time Jon had been unconscious, but Martin couldn't help feeling drawn to the Moth.

The high whistle of the kettle startled him back to attention. He brought the steeping mugs to the table and sat down to enjoy his porridge. Most of the sugar was gone along with half the honey. Martin couldn't help chuckling at the worried face Jon made when he realized what he'd done.

"I'm...I didn't mean to-to..."

"You have a sweet tooth," Martin said, shrugging as he finished off the sugar and poured some milk into his bowl, folding them in among the oats, soft raisins, and cinnamon. "I'll double my supply next delivery."

"I'm still sorry, though," Jon said, insistently. "From before...with the books. I didn't mean to upset you."

The smile faded somewhat and he could feel the fog closing in, but Martin reached over and took one of Jon's hands. Jon jumped from the contact, but he didn't reject Martin's touch.

"It's easy to forget things here," Martin said. "You couldn't upset me anymore than I upset myself from time to time. I suppose the upside is I'm never without something new to read, right?"

Jon looked distressed by the ease with which Martin took his attempted apology. "Don't you want to remember them? What if you have a favorite passage? A character you love? A character you dislike? What about at least knowing the title?"

"It wasn't important enough before, so I shouldn't be worried about it now," Martin said.

"Of course you should!" Jon exclaimed, his hands balling into fists as distress turned to anger. "Knowledge is part of who you are! If-if you don't have it, don't r-remember, then you've lost part of yourself! That should upset you, Martin. You should be furious! A piece of you is missing and you've had no say in keeping it. That's not fair! It's not FAIR!"

His fists came down on the table, the surface trembling from his rage. Martin stared at him, speechless. Jon was physically shaking, his antennae vibrating as they curled back. His emerald eyes were practically glowing and Martin was almost certain he saw Jon grow by a few inches. The same force he'd felt on his mind earlier returned, but there was more to it. Martin could feel it all around him and he wasn't afraid or mystified by it this time around. It felt like being known. It felt like being protected. They were both still for a few seconds, but when Jon returned to himself he looked ashamed at his behavior. He curled in on himself, trying to look smaller, but Martin couldn't stop staring. He'd never met anyone who could alter the very nature of the room around him like Jon did.

"I'm...I'm s-sorry..."

"Jon--"

Jon bolted from the room, leaving his hyper-sweet porridge and perfectly steeped tea untouched. Martin sighed and began to load breakfast on to a serving tray. He took his time, not because he was slow to move, but he wanted to give Jon the space to calm down a bit. There was only one place Martin could think to find him and he made sure to keep his footsteps loud enough that the Moth would hear him coming. He even deliberately shook the tray so the sound of jostled bowls, cups, and silverware acted as an alert system.

He found Jon in the study, sitting among the books he'd thrown to the floor. He absentmindedly tore a piece of paper from one of the books, something in the science fiction genre, and nibbled on it, grimacing in disgust. He quickly tried to remove the offensive material from his tongue, which caused Martin to chuckle. Jon winced at the interruption, but he at least met Martin's eyes even if he was still sporting a sorrowful expression. Martin ignored it, sitting by his side and setting the tray in front of them.

"You didn't eat your sugar bomb or drink your tea," Martin said. "Seems a shame to let it go to waste."

"I..."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Martin asked.

Jon closed his mouth, shaking his head as he picked up his bowl of porridge. "I don't kn...not right now."

"Okay," Martin said, gently. He sipped his tea and gave Jon an encouraging smile. "If you want to, or when you're ready, consider me an ear willing to listen."

Jon nodded, a thankful smile poking through the grimace. "Thank you."

"Of course," Martin said. He surveyed the state of the study with an uncertain stare. Jon hadn't even gotten to the shelves on the other walls and Martin guessed it would be the same with those books as well. He had a whole library of forgotten books to read again. "I don't know where to begin anymore. I've forgotten all of them. What if it happens again?"

He heard the soft CLICK of the tape recorder. Turning to Jon, he found the device resting on Jon's leg, whirling like it was ready to go. Jon looked just as surprised as Martin to see it, blushing as if he'd committed some sort of social taboo.

"Sorry. They do that sometimes," Jon said.

"Do they?" Martin asked, skeptically.

"When something of importance needs recording, yes," Jon said. His eyes brightened, his antennae stood at attention with excitement. "I could record the books for you!"

"What?"

"I could read them to you or you could read them to you. Out loud! That way you'd have proof if you ever doubt yourself!" Jon said. He happily stuffed his mouth with porridge, pausing to chew thoroughly. "It might help with the memory as well. Speaking the words instead of keeping them locked up in your head."

"You...you'd do that? For me?" Martin asked.

"Yes," Jon said as if his actions were no more significant than washing up the dishes after supper. "You deserve your memories, Martin. Even if they're of trashy romance novels."

Martin smiled at Jon with watery eyes. "Thank you, Jon. You - you're a good friend."

Jon blushed again, but quickly stuffed his mouth with porridge again to avoid speaking. They ate the rest of their breakfast and drank their tea in companionable silence.

The recorded quietly clicked off.


	4. Weaving spiders, come not here!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some unexpected guests arrive at the Lighthouse.

It was strange how easily they fell into a routine together. Martin continued to go about his usual duties as the Lighthouse Keeper, but now he had a bit of a shadow in the form of Jon. Not that Jon was in the way; he just found Martin's tasks enough of a curiosity to excuse his need to stay close. Being alone in the midst of the Forsaken's domain wasn't the smartest course of action, so Jon made sure the majority of their time was spent in each other's presence.

It worked in both their favors.

Martin looked forward to their reading sessions as they slowly made their way through his massive personal library of books long forgotten. They traded off reading, sometimes making it through a whole novel or taking their time to finish a non-fiction book over the span of a few days. The tape recorders always manifested as they began, the soft CLICK of their arrival sending a new thrill of happiness up Martin's spine. He tried to question Jon about how the recorders worked, but the only answer provided was a double shrug of arms.

"It's like breathing," Jon said by way of explanation. "You don't think about it. You just breathe. The recorders are there because they're part of me, I suppose."

It was as good of an answer as Martin was going to get. Regardless, recording the books was doing wonders for his memory as well. As they went chapter by chapter through a lengthy tome about student revolutionaries and a barricade, Martin realized he remembered what happened in the previous recordings without being prompted by a quick review or by Jon's not-so-subtle recaps. The titles and authors and even snippets of prose became easier to recall. The swell of pride in his chest doubled when Jon beamed at him after he ranted about a chapter dedicated entirely to a door that stuck with him nearly a week after reading it. He tried to ignore how fast his heart beat when Jon smiled at him, but there was no escaping how grateful and happy he was to have the company...or was companionship the better word?

Jon seemed to be happy enough with exploring every nook and cranny of the Lighthouse as well as the surrounding shoreline. They made it part of their routine to walk the shore's perimeter and Jon found himself picking up fascinating rocks that caught his eye in the dull shimmer of the water. Martin provided him with sandpaper to help smooth out the rough edges and, soon enough, Jon had quite the collection of stones and sea glass decorating his room.

His room. It was no longer the guest room, but Jon's room. Neither of them commented on it; it was just an unspoken acknowledgement between them.

Many of their evenings drew to a close at the top of the Lighthouse, the beacon shining brightly through the mist. They looked out over the darkened waters and the blanket of fog spread out as far as the dwindling horizon, content in the silence of the moment. It never lasted long. Jon was an anxious creature when it came to extended silence and Martin found a game in how long the quiet would last before Jon started talking to fill the void.

"Have you always been here, Martin?"

Forty-five seconds. A new record. Martin chuckled to himself before answering.

"Where is here? The Lighthouse? The Forsaken domain? Faerie in general?" he responded.

Jon's antennae curled in annoyance, which made Martin smile ever so slightly. He didn't know when it happened, but he'd started cataloging the way Jon's antennae gave away his emotions. They stood at attention when he was happy or excited; they curled and uncurled in short pulses when he was curious or thinking; they curled all the way forward when he was annoyed; they curled back, flat against his head when he was angry or scared; and they sagged or flopped in front of his face when he was sad or ashamed. He was easy to read, but Martin never found himself tiring of this particular book.

"Yes. All of the above," Jon said.

"Hmm. It's...it's hard to remember," Martin said. "I know I've always been in the Lighthouse. I can't remember a time when I wasn't. But..."

"But?"

"I don't really know how long I've been in the Lighthouse," Martin said. "I don't think I grew up here, but...it gets so fuzzy when I try to recall my parents or a time when I wasn't the Lonely Lord of the Lighthouse."

He felt something wet on his cheeks at the same time as Jon looked at him with a concerned expression. Oh, he was crying. Why was he crying?

"Martin..." Jon began, "I could...I could Know, if you'd like? I could find those memories for you."

He wiped at his eyes, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. "No. No, thank you, Jon. It's not...it feels too painful to think about."

"That doesn't mean it isn't worth knowing," Jon said.

"Maybe to you," Martin said, defensively, "but I don't need to Know everything. I'm - I'm fine with the...I'm fine."

"Martin..."

"Would you like to tell me about how and why you crashed into the Lighthouse?" Martin asked. Jon's eyes widened in panic before he looked away, his antennae sagging a bit before curling back.

"It's - it's not the same thing," Jon said, quietly. "It's safer for you not to know."

"Fine, but that goes for me as well," Martin said. "It's safer, for me, to not have my past dredged up out of curiosity."

"Martin, I--"

"Jon."

"I just want to--"

"Please, Jon. Please leave it alone," Martin said. The words were rushed and just as panicky. He felt like the walls were closing in even though they were outside. Jon was too close. How had he let Jon get so close? "Maybe - maybe leave me alone as well for a bit."

Watching Jon's face fall broke his heart, but he needed space. He needed room to breathe and even out in the open air he felt his lungs struggling to find purchase. Jon's winged-coat had become more of a cape this evening. It billowed in a dramatic fashion as he shuffled sullenly back inside. When he was sure Jon was out of sight, Martin let out a great sigh though he wasn't sure if it was out of relief or regret. Was it possible to be both? He wasn't sure how long he stood there before he felt the fog circling his mind, waiting for the opportunity to offer its listless comfort. He pushed it away and was surprised when it pushed back.

There was a hand on his shoulder barely discernible from the coiling mist. He felt its weight as the body attached to the hand took on a familiar shape. It was rare that he received a visit from Peter, but the Lord of Severance had always taken an interest in him for reasons Martin could never quite understand. As a sylph - a spirit of air - Peter could take on any form he liked. It was a part of the mercurial nature of his Folk that Martin envied. Peter, however, always chose to appear as a friendly-looking, older sea captain when he visited. Perhaps it was his way of fitting in with the Lighthouse motif or maybe he just liked being an old man with a corn cob pipe, a hat, and a peat coat. Either way, he now stood, fully formed, at Martin's side with a firm smile pushing through his thick beard of grey hair.

"Hello, Martin, my lad!" he said. "How long has it been since we last talked?"

"A few years," Martin shrugged. "Maybe a decade or two."

"Excellent. Excellent," Peter said as he clapped his hand on Martin's shoulder in a manner that resembled an ease of camaraderie they did not possess. Even through his thick knit jumper, Martin could feel the cold aura exuded by the sylph.

Martin sighed. "What do you want, Peter?"

"Nothing in particular. I was sailing through this part of the Forsaken and I thought, against my better judgement, that I'd check up on you," he said. Turning towards the interior of the Lighthouse, Peter's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Am I right in my observations that you have a Moth residing in your home?"

That constricting feeling entered his chest once again. "Y-yes. He - he's called Jon."

"I see. A name and a home...the Watcher can't be happy about that," Peter murmured, a delighted smile creeping across his face.

"He - he's been helping me with my memory," Martin said.

"Has he?" Peter asked, though Martin couldn't place the intention behind the words.

"Some of them," Martin admitted. "Just the ones I want to remember. It's mostly books right now."

"It's an interesting strategy, I'll give you that," Peter said as if he were musing out loud.

"Strategy?"

"Well, he needs to offer something as recompense for disappearing from the Watcher's gaze," Peter said. "There's no other reason for him to stay here other than the benefit of being nearly invisible."

He felt the coldness seeping into his skin the longer Peter's hand remained on his shoulder. He couldn't hide the gasp that rode the coattails of Peter's words.

"What? You - you think Jon is just - just using me?" Martin stammered.

Peter gave him a pitying look that made Martin's stomach churn. "My dear boy, it makes perfect sense when you think it through. If I'd escaped from the Panopticon, the first place I'd go is the Forsaken. And if, perhaps, there was a lonely member of the Court in need of companionship, I'd ingratiate myself as quickly as possible. It's a surefire means of survival."

The fog and the cold surrounded him as Peter reached his arm across Martin's shoulders in the parody of a side hug. He shivered as his mind felt heavy with gloomy stupor.

"No, Jon, he...he wouldn't...would he?" Martin mumbled.

"It's alright, lad," Peter said. His voice echoed in mock sympathy. "We're all vulnerable to hope of connection. It's as much our curse as it is our strength. But once he's gone, your walls will rebuild and you'll be stronger for it. Less susceptible to such manipulations in the future!"

One word cut through the murkiness. "Gone?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I imagine he'll be gone soon enough," Peter said. He pulled out a fob watch, checking the time like it meant anything to him. To Martin, he suddenly felt the urgency of a ticking clock latch on to his heart.

"What...why would you say that?" Martin asked. He felt something building in his stomach. It was warm and not entirely unpleasant, but it cut through the icy vapor holding him hostage. Peter either didn't notice or care or both.

"Martin, do you think the Watcher would just let a Moth get away without hiring someone or several someones to hunt it down and return it?" Peter said, a hint of laughter lacing his words. "The Forsaken's concealment isn't without limitations. If anything it just delayed the inevitable. Can't be helped, I'm afraid."

"Someone's here? Someone's here for Jon?" Martin said, pulling away from Peter's grip. The sylph allowed it, his form already beginning to fade into the mist.

"I gave them as much time as they deserved," Peter said. There was nothing left of him save for the outline of a Cheshire-like grin as Martin rushed through the fog into the Lighthouse. Motivations be damned, he wasn't going to let anything happen to Jon.

***

As long as he kept his focus on polishing the rocks, Jon wasn't thinking about Martin. If he could smooth out the rough edges, fashion the sea glass into something pleasant and beautiful, then maybe he could do the same to repair his mistakes with Martin. He only wanted to help. Memories were important and he couldn't understand why Martin refused to reclaim what was rightfully his when Jon was offering to help. What good did it serve to abandon the bits of yourself you didn't like? Even bad experiences were useful if understood correctly, right? How could Martin be so content to leave himself behind? He was a good person. He was a kind person. A wonderful person, if Jon let himself sit in his emotions for more than a few seconds. Surely there was nothing so horrible in his past that would warrant such a displeasure at the very thought of retrieving those memories?

The more he questioned it, the less his convictions were as convincing as they were minutes before. What right did he have to push Martin towards a decision he clearly didn't want to make? They were his memories and he had every right to forget them. He felt a shiver go down his spine at the idea of forgetting. He could practically feel the Panopticon's gaze bearing down upon his shoulders, crushing his wings until he twitched with fearful resignation.

At some point he'd stopped polishing the rocks and sea glass. The frustration and sadness overwhelmed him as he pitched the stones across the room along with the sheets of sandpaper. What was the point if all he did was upset Martin? He wanted to return the kindness given, but he kept screwing it up. Martin was a Lord of the Forsaken Court and he was...he was...

"Just a Moth. That's all you are," he whispered to himself. "Useless know-nothing know-it-all."

His antennae drooped in front of his eyes. He tried to blow them out of his face, but out of the corner of his eye he saw something skitter out of sight. He turned sharply to the left, scanning the room quickly. There was webbing on the walls that hadn't been there before. How could a Spider get in without him noticing?

He felt the abrupt sting of pincers in his shoulder and the warm spread of heaviness flow through his body as he lost all control of himself. He slumped forward, awake and aware but incapable of movement. He couldn't maintain the form of his wings as they revealed themselves and sank limply. He felt his body moving without his consent as eight points of contact were made, all of them working towards sitting him up straight, holding him in place, and finally lifting his chin to meet eyes with his assailant.

"I couldn't agree more," said the Spider. She presented herself as a woman's upper half with the body of a bulbous black widow, not an uncommon form for those within the Court of Weavers. Her dark skin was like a starless night sky with eight red eyes shining through like bloody pinpoints of light. Her bald head had a crack on the side where nothing could be seen except the webbing holding it together. She moved Jon's head around, examining him with a mean and hungry look.

"My, my, my," she said, her voice dangerously silky. "You're a pretty one, aren't you? It's those eyes. Windows to the soul, right? Isn't that what your Folk are all about? Watching? Observing? Oh, what those eyes must have seen for the Watcher to want you back so badly."

"Hnngg," Jon breathed, struggling against the failure of his lungs. The paralytic thankfully hadn't shut his body down entirely, but it was harder to breathe the more he struggled. Stubbornness may have been one of his faults, but Jon was determined to fight back even if it seemed hopeless.

"Now, now, best not to exert yourself too much, pet," she said. Her hands cupped his face, stroking his cheeks lovingly. He wanted to pull away from her touch. He wanted to scream until his voice was hoarse. "Can't have you dying on me before I get paid for my efforts. Maybe a nap is in order? You must be tired, hiding for so long and in such fear of discovery can be exhausting."

"Hnngg...Nnnoo," Jon wheezed.

"I do like your spirit, little Moth," she said, bringing him in closer. He could see her dagger-like teeth dripping with something more than saliva. "Perhaps I'll keep you for myself. Would you like that? We could have such fun together, you and I."

Jon could do nothing as she sank her teeth into his neck, another sensation of warmth spreading quickly through his blood. It beckoned him to sink, to fall and float away. He felt his eyes grow heavy. All he wanted to do was sleep. He could lose himself in his dreams. He could drift into nothing and let the Watcher deal with whatever was left behind. He'd gotten so much farther than he was expecting when he'd escaped. This was Fate catching up with him and there was little to do except welcome the bliss of slumber.

Except...Martin...

He didn't want to leave Martin. He didn't want to leave the Lighthouse. He didn't want to leave behind recording books. He didn't want to leave behind quiet walks along the shoreline. He didn't want to go back to the Panopticon.

He fought against the pull of sleep. As much as his eyes wanted to close, he desperately forced them open. The Spider looked impressed at his efforts, but they both knew it was a matter of time before he lost the battle. Her venom was strong and there was no one coming to help him.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh, my pet," she sang. "Just sleep for me. Sleep and be happy. Such beautiful, tired eyes are in need of some rest. Sleep, little Moth. Sleep."

He barely felt the tear streak down his face. A cold sensation penetrated the heaviness of his mind as all other thoughts and feelings drifted away.

He could finally sleep and greet oblivion.

***

Martin felt the presence of the intruder the moment he stepped into the Lighthouse. A Spider in Jon's room.

He was at the door in seconds. It opened for him because he willed it so. There, holding Jon's limp and seemingly lifeless body, was a Spider and Martin had never felt such rage surge through him. He let the ice and fog and the oppressive feelings of loneliness and detachment invade the room. He let it sink into his bones as he gripped tightly to the heartlessness that came with fully embracing the Forsaken. He couldn't remember the last time he'd tapped into it and he was thankful for that as he unleashed it on the trespasser.

"You've violated my oath, my vow of protection, child of the Weaver," he said in a voice that wasn't quite his own. "You were not invited into my home. Therefore, you are not subject to my hospitality. Instead, you are the recipient of my punishment!"

"Please, my Lord, take pity on a Weaver acting only on the need to survive!" the Spider pleaded. She bowed to him, prostrating herself to garner sympathy. "I humbly ask your forgiveness and for sanctuary against those who would see me dead for a contract unfulfilled."

"You think me soft, Spider?" he asked. He could see the moment her eight eyes filled with terror. "You think I am so easily fooled? Do you think I am incapable of defending my home from the manipulations of your Folk?"

"No, my Lord! Of course not!" she cried. She carefully laid Jon's body on the floor. "Please, I beg of you. The-the Moth is yours. Just let me leave as I was when I arrived."

Martin paused, thinking over her request.

"Very well," he said. "You were invisible to me when you entered my home. And so you shall remain!"

"NOOOOO!" cried the Spider. The sea and salt and brine mixed with the fog and mist and vapor, piercing the Spider's body as she evaporated into nothing. The wind carried her screams out into the bitter chill of the night, swirling and writhing with the last notes of her agonizing song.

The power of the Forsaken fell away as Martin rushed over to Jon. He remained still, the only movement coming from his shallow breaths. At least he was breathing. Martin placed shaking fingers to his neck, careful of the bite marks, and checked for a pulse. It was there, but so slow it sent him into another round of panic. The bite mark wasn't the worst of it. He could see the shoulder wound where the Spider had stabbed him with her paralytic. That and the sleeping venom was a combination that would definitely kill Jon if untreated. Both wounds had already started to develop dark tendrils of infection that meant to slowly drain Jon's life.

"Jon! Jon, open your eyes," Martin ordered. He pulled Jon into his arms, jostling him as much as possible. His eyes were half-lidded, but unresponsive. Martin tugged his hair, pulled his wing, yelled in his ear, anything to elicit a reaction. There was nothing. Other than the sluggish rise and fall of his chest only Jon's antennae made any kind of obvious motion. "Please, please, Jon...I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help you. I don't know, but you do. You have to Know. Please, Jon. Please help me."

The antennae twitched forward, just enough to brush against Martin's hands as he stroked Jon's dark hair. There was a sudden rush in his mind, like the entirety of Knowledge was trying to invade. For a moment, Martin saw the world how Jon did. Everything was there. Every tidbit and secret and memory was accessible to him if only he thought to reach for it. He could See and Know Faerie and the worlds beyond the Veil without effort. There was power in this jumble of information and yet Jon did very little to let on that he had so much of it at the ready. How he didn't collapse from the overwhelming bombardment of truths and lies and everything in between was a miracle.

He felt a gentle touch, a soft caress of guidance that must have been Jon, lead him him toward the information he needed. The Spider, the wounds, the venom, and the cures entered his mind. He Knew what to do and how little time he had to accomplish the task. He picked Jon up and laid him on his bed, careful not to damage his limp wings. He leaned in close, brushing back Jon's hair and whispering into his ear:

"I'll be right back, Jon," he said. There was a lump in this throat he couldn't shake. "Don't go anywhere, okay?"

Rushing to the kitchen, Martin sent skyward blessings that he had everything needed to counteract the paralytic and the venom. He got to work boiling roots and smashing herbs. The rarer ingredients, your standard toad's breath, nightshade's bane, fenny snake fillet, newt eyes, and the like had all been acquired at some point during his life in the Lighthouse. He couldn't remember when they'd been stocked in his pantry. He couldn't remember if they were fresh enough to make the antidote reliably potent. For the first time, he was truly afraid of the consequences of not remembering pieces of his life.

He had to chance it and hope Jon survived so he could needle Martin about his memories again. He wouldn't back away next time. He spoke the vow with every stir of the brewing pot and every smash of the mortar and pestle. He ran back and forth from the kitchen to Jon's room, checking on the Moth's condition and finding him severely weakened at each interval. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his face and he could chart the progress of the infection across Jon's skin.

When, at last, he had the potion and the poultice ready he rushed the freshly made cures to Jon. He cut away the tunic, spreading the poultice over the shoulder wound and the bite mark on his neck. Then, he lifted Jon's head and slowly dribbled the potion into his mouth, stopping briefly to make sure Jon swallowed and didn't choke. Once the potion was completely administered, he eased Jon back on to the pillow and readied himself for a long night of waiting.

"Please be okay," Martin whispered over Jon's unconscious form. "Please be okay. Please don't leave me."

The plea continued well into morning, the next day, and the next.


	5. Suit the Action to the Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon tells the story of his escape from the Panopticon.

When Jon fully felt himself waking up there were several sensations accosting him at the same time. One, there was a breeze blowing through the window and apparently his torso was bare, again. Two, something thick and herbal was on his skin in two places. Three, he had a pounding headache. Four, someone was snoring very close to his ear. Opening his eyes was a greater feat than he'd accounted for and, even when he accomplished the task, it was a struggle to keep them open.

The snorer's identity was solved almost instantly once the blurriness faded from his vision. Martin was seated in a chair by the bed, his head pillowed on his arms near Jon's head. Jon frowned in sympathy for how painful the odd position had to be on Martin's back. It was followed by a wave of happiness at waking up to Martin's face instead of the nightmare he imagined awaited him if the Spider had succeeded in delivering her quarry.

A terrible thought occurred to him that he was hallucinating the best case scenario, that Martin was the last phantom of joy dangled in front of him before he realized he was back in the Panopticon. His arms felt heavy from sleep, but he reached out a hand towards Martin's head, carding through hair that looked darker than it had before. All of Martin looked more present, a solid figure less likely to fade away. Jon smiled at the feeling of Martin's hair moving through his fingers right before giving it a hard tug.

"What!? Where!? OW!!" Martin cried out. The Lonely Lord was up and on his feet, panic and fear in his eyes as he surveyed the room for enemies. When his eyes finally settled on Jon, there was a full minute of silence where only Martin's heavy breathing could be heard. Finally, Martin whispered, "Jon?"

"Martin..." Jon said, a smile firmly planted on his face. He felt his eyes drooping again. "Sorry...Had to be...sure..."

"No - no, Jon, please," Martin said, rushing back to Jon's side. He took Jon's hand, holding on tightly. "Just-just stay awake, if you can."

"..Okay..."

"What did you mean? Had to be sure of what?"

"...That you were...real...that I...wasn't dead..."

Martin let out a light huff of laughter. "I think you're supposed to pinch yourself to prove that."

Jon chuckled weakly. "Figured...hallucination couldn't - couldn't get the reactions right..."

"Well, I'm glad I passed the test," Martin said. He couldn't help himself. He stroked Jon's hair, watching as the Moth relaxed into the comforting touch. "Thank you, by the way."

An eye opened at the same time as an antenna lifted curiously. "For...what?"

"You showed me how to help you," Martin explained. "I saw...Jon, I saw everything. Your mind is so - it's so big and-and beautiful. I honestly don't know how you keep it together and sorted. How can you still be so curious if it's all there?"

Jon's frown formed gradually, but Martin felt his grip tighten immediately. "I-I need to - to tell you..."

"What? Tell me what, Jon?" Martin asked, concern filling his voice.

"The Spider...won't...not the last," Jon said through heavy breaths. "The Watcher...will send...others."

"It's okay, Jon. It's okay. I won't let them," Martin said.

Jon shook his head, trying desperately to rid himself of the creeping lure of sleep. He tried to sit up, but his body was slow with fatigue. Even his wings struggled to flutter. Martin easily pushed him back down. He could have done so with his pinkie finger and Jon would have considered it a powerful weapon capable of subduing the mightiest of foes. Still, he tried to explain himself despite his head softly sinking into the comfort of his pillow.

"Need to know...you need to know...why."

"It's alright, Jon," Martin said. His voice was so gentle and inviting. "You can tell me. Just...let's wait until your better rested, okay? A stiff breeze could knock you out at this point."

Jon was helpless to resist and felt his eyes closing as he nodded in agreement.

"Okay..."

"Okay," Martin repeated.

Martin resumed his vigilant position, keeping their hands together by sheer force of will. Jon felt his other hands gravitating towards the warmth of connection. Knowing Martin was there and that he was safe for the time being, Jon fell into a deep, restful sleep.

***

It wasn't until early evening the next day that Jon had the energy to tell his story. The poultices were gone, though Jon could still smell the strong scent of calendula, violets, and lavender, and he was thankfully wearing a new tunic fashioned to accommodate his extra pair of arms. Jon suspected a magic wardrobe of some kind, but he wasn't expending his limited energy on that mystery...yet. Martin insisted he stay in bed, but brought a thin soup and tea for a quiet supper by candlelight. An outside observer might view the scene as romantic, but neither was in the right headspace to make such a conclusion. Jon was hurriedly finishing his meal, all too eager to tell his tale and suffer the consequences. Martin, on the other hand, was preoccupied with making sure Jon didn't mess up all the effort he'd put into keeping him alive the last few days.

"Don't overdo it," Martin said sternly after he'd made sure Jon ate and drank his fill. Before the Moth could get a word in, Martin pushed ahead, saying, "I mean it, Jon. You could barely keep your eyes open yesterday. If it's too much, then we can wait."

They heard the soft CLICK of the recorder nearby.

Jon shook his head. "Waiting is a luxury we - I - no longer have."

"Even so...go easy on yourself," Martin said. Jon's wings folded around him, transforming into a fluffy, comforting blanket that draped over his shoulders. Martin brought his chair closer, keeping his palm open and free in case Jon needed the support. Jon was grateful for the gesture, taking the proffered hand while his lower set wrung themselves nervously. Martin kept a careful eye on the antennae as they alternated between drooping and curling back.

"Deep breath, Jon. Okay?" Martin said.

Doing as instructed, Jon let out a heavy sigh of air, saying, "Okay."

***

_When Moths are born, we don't immediately have access to all of the Knowledge of the world. It comes to us a bit later, when we've matured to an appropriate age. Unfortunately, even then, many Moths don't survive the Acquisition. Some die almost immediately from the force of such power; some are too overwhelmed by the weight of Knowledge and become lost in their own minds; others develop a profound apathy to all of Existence and fade away. Those of us who do survive, however, are given shelter and purpose in the Panopticon._

_We're told from the beginning that the Panopticon is the best choice for us. It's hallowed halls are the most suited for our Folk since it's dedicated to the pursuit of Knowledge. Who better to aid in such an endeavor than a Moth? Our minds contain multitudes and we can only enhance what's already an institution of great significance to the Beholding Court. Serve it well and perhaps the Watcher will show you favor. Yes, the Panopticon is the best choice._

_But it isn't the only choice.  
_

_It wasn't unprecedented for a Moth to leave the Beholding and reside elsewhere, but to do so was to invite scrutiny and potential war. What's the saying? Ah, yes, 'Beholding isn't a cruel Court, but a Greedy one.' I disagree with that adage entirely. Some decades ago, maybe a century, a Moth took up a position of some import with the Court of the Nightsong. There were rumors that they were lovers with the Dark Star and the Watcher was furious that the Moth was giving the Nightsong knowledge without conditions or permission, as if the Watcher was the sole possessor of the Moth's mind. The Watcher turned the gaze of the Panopticon on the Still and Lightless Lands, penetrating the darkness as it called for the Moth's return. The Moth was willing to leave in order to save their love, but...the Dark Star was not willing to let the Moth leave with the knowledge they now had of the Nightsong. And so the Dark Star killed the Moth before plunging into the Extinguished Sun._

_It's a story all Moths learn early on about the dangers of leaving home and the treachery of the other Courts._

_T_ _hat's why the Panopticon is the best choice._

_When I was of age and survived the Acquisition, I was excited to find my place at the Panopticon. My cocoon matron said my type of Moth, an owl moth, was more well suited to a long life of service and knowledge management. Something about the owl adding an innate affinity towards intelligence. It seems so ridiculous now when I think of my youth and the lies they fed me to keep me in my place. Still, I was nervous to become part of something greater than myself, something that had only loomed in the background of my life until this moment. That's when I met Him and Her. She was an ornate moth assigned to Section S and He was an atlas moth assigned to Section T. We became friends immediately, much to my surprise._

_You see, while Moths have access to so much Knowledge, there are the years leading up to the Acquisition in which we just grow up like, for lack of a better word, normal children do. We develop our own personalities, our own views of the world and those beyond the Veil. The matrons think they can pinpoint who will and who won't survive the Acquisition based on their personality and I'm fairly certain they thought I was too stubborn and contrary to allow myself the indignity of dying. Maybe they were right. But having Knowledge doesn't mean we're infallible, quite the opposite. We often lack context and many of us lack the most basic social skills when speaking with patrons of the Panopticon. It's why Moths are not sought out for reference unless absolutely necessary. Or, that's what we were told._

_I'd always had problems making friends as a child. Too haughty and arrogant for my own good, but He and Her pushed past it all and wore me down until I couldn't imagine being at the Panopticon without them. We were inseparable for the longest time. I think...I think we were even in love, all of us, together. He was brave and strong, the funniest Moth I'd ever met but so gentle when he thought no one was looking. She was kind and inquisitive more than Him and me could ever hope to be. She was never satisfied unless a question had been fully answered. She'd stay up late roaming the Panopticon for something, anything new to Know. I accompanied Her many of those nights. I always had a hard time sleeping and She understood the calling of a restless mind. Watching Her flutter around the stacks and shelves sampling new arrivals and updated collections was like watching a dancer in their element. She was beautiful._

_And the Watcher took her from us._

_There were always other Moths in the Panopticon who slogged around the place like they lacked the emotion and enthusiasm to do more than was absolutely necessary. We'd try to talk to them, but they'd just blink slowly, nod, and shuffle away as if we'd never had a conversation. We never thought to question it, or, at least, I never did. I think She did. I think She figured it out, but the Watcher was already on to her. She was too smart, too passionate and...one morning He and I woke up and She wasn't there. We thought she'd gotten up early and gone off to her section like she did sometimes._

_When we found her in the S section, she was already gone._

_Her body was there, yes, and her access to Knowledge was intact, but everything that made her Her was gone. No memories of us, no personality of wit and love and kindness. There were only blank eyes that stared beyond us and an all too familiar gait as she inched away._ _He tried to hold her, kiss her, make her understand what she meant to Him. What she meant to us. He couldn't get through to Her. I tried as well, but...there was nothing of Her left. She was Not-Her and she never would be again._ _That's when we learned the truth of the Panopticon. The Watcher hoarded Knowledge by keeping the Moths submissive and obedient, wrenching away any inkling of their identity when they got too close to uncovering the deception or punishing us for daring to go beyond the domain to which we were bound._

_Neither of us coped well with what happened, how could we? He pulled away from me, sinking into depression and anger that I couldn't save him from. I needed something to do, so I started retracing Her route among the stacks and shelves, and it was only through dumb luck that I stumbled upon a book She'd left behind. I don't know if it was for me, but I took it for the gift that it was and it led me to another Moth, a great brocade, in Section B. They'd been talking with Her about escaping, helping her leave the Panopticon to pierce the Veil and live outside of Faerie. She'd been trying to convince them to bring myself and Him on the journey, but they were uncertain if they could smuggle more than one Moth out of the Panopticon without being noticed. They had a friend, a wolf-kin of the Everchase, who knew a way to secret Moths out of Beholding. It wasn't a guarantee to find freedom or sanctuary, but it was the best way to get a head start on the Watcher._

_I tried to convince Him to come with me, but he wouldn't leave Her side. Someone had to look out for Her and he gave me his blessing to leave. We spent one last night together and then I left. I was advised to head towards the Forsaken domain. It was the only place to at least lay low and stay hidden from the Watcher's gaze. Unfortunately, the wolf-kin and I ran into trouble as we were cutting through the Slaughtered Fields. They attacked, possibly to take me to one of their Lords, the Grifter, I think. The wolf-kin drew them away, taking the brunt of the attack, but several of them got their knives into me before I truly understood what was happening. I'd - I'd never seen battle or been in anything that could even be generously thought of as a fight. I was in shock and I think the only reason I even made it out of there alive was some instinctual need to survive._

_I flew as far and as fast as I could. I made my way into the Forsaken, tired and bleeding, but all I saw was ocean. Nowhere to land, nowhere to rest. I almost fell into the sea several times. And then I saw it, a light that cut through the fog. It called to me and I went towards it because I knew, deep down, that I would be safe wherever that light stood. And, well, you know the rest._

_That's how I found you._

***

Tears flowed freely down Jon's face as he finished his tale. Martin, without thinking, eased himself on to the bed and held Jon in his arms, letting the Moth cry into his chest. It made sense now why Jon had been so adamant about the importance of memory. It was his own fear of losing everything that made him Jon coming to the forefront. It's what drove him out of the Panopticon and into Martin's arms, so to speak. And now he was stuck in a domain where memories could easily slip away if you weren't careful. How hard was he fighting to keep them intact? How much of himself did he trust not to dissolve while he slept? It made his anger and frustration all the more palpable now that Martin had context.

And still he stayed in the Lighthouse.

Jon's heavy sobs filled the empty room until they finally quieted and Martin found himself staring into Jon's watery green eyes backlit by the diminishing candlelight. He was glad for the small amount of darkness that hid his blushing cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," Jon whispered.

"What? Why?" Martin asked.

"I've - I've put you in danger," Jon said. "The Watcher knows I'm here. He-he won't stop until I'm returned to the Panopticon."

"Well, you're not going back," Martin said. "That's not an option."

"Not if it means you get hurt," Jon said. All of his hands found a tight grip on Martin's jumper. "I couldn't...I don't want someone I care about to suffer because of me."

"Jon...what? You - you care about me?" Martin asked, dumbstruck by the words spilling from Jon's mouth.

Jon leaned in close, nuzzling the jumper just beneath Martin's chin. "More than I should. More than enough for the Watcher to have reason to harm you."

"Not if he wants another war," Martin grumbled.

Jon carefully wrapped one side of the blanket-that-was-his-wings around Martin and the Lonely Lord, for the first time he could remember, felt a swell of affection engulf his body as the fog receded into the background of his mind. He felt wanted and protected, but it was a different feeling then when Jon Knew something. This was like coming home to a crackling fire, a fresh cup of tea, and a smile from the one you love. It felt like a beginning to something wonderful, something powerful.

Martin tightened the hug, resting his cheek on top of Jon's head.

"I won't let you go back. Not if it means you lose yourself in the process," he said. "We'll figure something out."

"We?" Jon asked.

Martin nodded. "I-I care about you too, Jon. This...this is your home for as long as you'll have it. For as long as you'll have me. So, whatever the Watcher wants to throw at us we'll face it together."

It was a small kiss, just a quick press of lips and a quiet sigh of breath in the fading light. Hardly the stuff of romance novels and yet it felt bigger and brighter than the beacon shining out into the dismal, murky night. They fell asleep in each other's arms, the coming battle merely the seed of a nightmare not yet sprouted.

And from a great distance, the Watcher saw it all.


	6. Hover Through the Fog and Filthy Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fog, and a certain air spirit, fights back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter earlier than expected because the world's on fire and writing's the only way I know how to cope that doesn't involve alcohol...sometimes.

He woke up alone. Was he alone when he went to sleep? There was an empty feeling by his side, as though someone once occupied the space, so there must have been someone there. He let his hands feel about, searching for what was clearly missing.

There was too much fog in the way. It was hard to see.

He needed to See. He needed to Know.

The memories rushed forward in seconds, cutting through the fog that obscured his mind. He was in the Lighthouse, in his bed, still recovering from the Spider's attack. He'd been recording more frequently, documenting everything he knew, everything he read for fear of another attack from those sent by the Watcher. It was difficult to rest and relax, knowing he was on borrowed time despite Martin's constant--

Wait.

"Martin?" he called. Where was Martin? They'd fallen asleep in his bed. Together. He wasn't able to traverse the stairs yet, even flying was hard. He felt sluggish and tired, but it'd been days since the attack and his return to consciousness. Had it been days? Weeks? It couldn't have been a month, could it? It was so hard to focus. The memories ebbed and flowed through his mind like sifting sand. He tried to grab hold, but they slipped away before he could properly concentrate. Why was there so much fog?

"Martin? Martin, are you there? It's me! It's--"

Why couldn't he remember his name? Did he have a name? He was called something. He looked down at his four hands, barely able to make them out in the thick haze

"You're name is...Your name is...!" he shouted into the vapor-laden atmosphere. "It's...you're-you're a m-m-m-moth!"

Was that it? Was that his name? No, that wasn't a name. He had a name. Martin - Martin gave it to him. He called him....

"I'm - I'm - j-j-JON! Jon! Yes! Jon!" he exclaimed, triumphantly. "Martin! It's Jon! Where are you!?"

No response, just silence except for the forlorn sounds of wind and the ocean. It was unnerving and he had the distinct feeling that the longer he stayed in one spot, listening to the morose chimes of isolation, the harder it would be to remain himself and find Martin. He pushed the blanket off, setting unsteady feet on the ground before testing his balance. He didn't bother putting a glamor on his wings, but he could feel their weight as he compensated his stance. A wave of dizziness passed over him, but he shook it off as he moved forward. He was still weak from the Spider's venom, but he wouldn't let that stop him from finding Martin.

He made it to the door, throwing it open when the sudden, sharp gust of wind chilled him to the bone. It felt like there was a hand grasping his shoulder, the cold concentrating on where fingers pressed into his skin. It was the same shoulder the Spider had stabbed him with her pincers.

"I'd advise against this course of action," said an echoing voice made of ice and solitude. He felt the hand push down harder, crying out when the frozen air snapped against his still healing wound. "It's better for everyone if you go back to bed, Moth."

"My name is Jon," he said between clenched teeth, "and I'm not going anywhere until I find Martin."

"I'm afraid the Lonely Lord no longer has need of your company," said the ill wind. "The title implies that, don't you think, Moth?"

It was too sudden to be true. It was too unlike Martin to be believable.

"Then let him tell me that," Jon snarled. He tried to pull away, but the grip on him was much stronger, keeping him in place. He felt movement, like the wind was circling him to get a good look from the front. Now it was between him and the stairs. To get to Martin, he'd have to get past what his eyes could not perceive.

"It's better for him to forget this nonsense," said the wind as its hand continued to pump shards of ice into his skin. It gave Jon a shove as well. Not enough to topple him, but enough for him to know that he could. Martin was right. A stiff wind could knock him over. "Once the Watcher collects you we'll all be able to return to normal and put this unpleasantness behind us."

"I've - I've done nothing to him," Jon said. His arm felt numb from the shoulder down and he could feel it spreading across the rest of his body. "He-he's st-still the Ke-Keeper of the L-lighthouse. H-He's still h-ere. Nothing...nothing's changed."

He heard the being scoff. "I thought Moths knew everything? I'll make a point to tell the Watcher how one of his pets has failed to live up to its expectations."

"I'm. No one's. Pet," Jon growled. He felt a cold breath on his ear.

"Are you sure about that? Seems like you're just trading one master for another."

There was a moment, a singular breath of doubt that crossed his mind. It was all the fog needed to invade, seeping into the walls and barriers as it filled him with melancholy and dread. He felt lightheaded, like his brain was stuffed with cotton. His body was heavy, weighing him down as he sank to his knees. There was so much he and Martin didn't know about each other. Martin actively refused to know anything about himself, so how was Jon supposed to know what kind of person he really was? Martin knew everything about Jon. He'd trusted Martin with his story not just out of desperation, but because he cared. Did Martin feel the same? Or was his need for connection so fierce that even a Moth would do in a pinch?

Jon couldn't feel half of his body. He was too cold, too tired from running and hiding and waiting for the other show to drop. He felt empty.

"I should...I should sleep," Jon said. There was a tinny quality to his voice he didn't recognize. He didn't have the strength to care about it. The freezing wind wrapped around him in a frigid embrace that snuffed out any remaining warmth. There was only the cold, the fog, and the emptiness.

"There's a good lad," said the air. "Rest is the best thing for you. You've been through quite a lot. Give it a few days and you'll be right as rain to go home."

"Home?" Jon said. He felt a shift in the air, a crackle of something volatile as the question left his mouth. It was weak, but present. His mind didn't feel as fuzzy as before.

"Um, yes. Home," the wind said. It sounded nervous, unsure of what was transpiring. "Beholding. The Panopticon and the Watcher. I'm unsure of the co-habitation of Moths, but I'm sure there's something to that effect."

"Martin said this was my home," Jon said, the tinny echo of his voice fading. "I was invited."

"Yes, well, Martin has a tendency to pick up strays," the wind said. The fog closed in again, pressing into the cracks where it saw weakness. "I'm afraid you're no different than the other pathetic wastrels who wash up on his shore."

"Then why do you care?" Jon asked. The question appeared innocent enough on the surface, but even in his indifferent state Jon couldn't fight his natural curiosity. The air shifted again, buzzing and popping with static. The question was stronger as it traveled towards the being holding him back. It demanded to be answered.

"Be...cause...I brought him...here," the entity said. Its voice was strained, fighting against something Jon couldn't comprehend in the moment. He continued to fight as he said, "I...made him...what he...is. He belongs...here. He...belongs to...me."

Anger surged in Jon's chest as pain bloomed behind his eyes. It wasn't the sting of tears, he was far too familiar with that sensation. No, this was different. This was powerful.

There was a green tinge to the world. His eyes watered with new sight as the fog disappeared, showing him how clear the lighthouse truly was without the obstructive veneer. He heard a gasp and Jon smiled when his eyes landed on the defined shape of an air spirit; a sylph, to be exact. The shock on its face was very real when their eyes locked. In that pause of surprise, Jon removed his shoulder from the sylph's grasp, ignoring the pain of the newly opened wound as warm blood trickled down his nearly frozen arm.

"I see you," Jon said. The echo of his voice lacked the distance of the sylph's influence. Instead, it was electrified with static that popped in the moisture of the heavy air. He stood again, feeling taller and stronger as the sylph seemed to shrink beneath his gaze. His mind finally supplied him with the pertinent information as he realized who he was addressing. He gave what could only be considered a sarcastic bow as he said, "It's an honor to meet you, Peter, Lord of Severance."

"How - how are you doing this?" Peter asked.

Jon smiled. "I'm a Moth. I belong to the Panopticon. I am of the Panopticon, therefore I am the Panopticon. Thank you for reminding me."

It was an odd feeling spreading through him, like being outside of himself. He felt his mouth move, but the words were laden with power unlike he'd ever experienced. His body felt stretched and taut, his arms and legs elongated yet balanced against the rapid fluttering of his wings. His antennae vibrated as more information, more Knowledge flooded his mind. Behind it all, he could feel the Watcher's gaze upon him. He could sense the growing discomfort and rage of one of the High Lords of Faerie. Had he tapped into something that was beyond him or just forbidden? Had it always been his to command and control? Could all Moths access this power?

"Where is Martin?" Jon asked. The sylph winced, its entire form trying desperately to reject the compulsion to speak. Though Jon's wings didn't normally disturb the air, he could see the sylph's form scatter in time with each oscillation.

"Top of the Lighthouse," he gasped. "By the beacon."

"What did you do to him?"

"I made him Drift," Peter said. The sylph practically clawed at its own throat, but spoke nonetheless. "I was going to bring him back once you were gone."

"I believe the only one leaving is you," Jon said.

"What?"

The thrum of wings increased and Jon watched, impassively, as the sylph fought to retain even a basic form.

"Goodbye, Peter," Jon said. "Once you've managed to piece yourself together please think twice about returning."

Even the sylph's screams were silent as he diffused with a final push of wings and wind. Jon watched the particles scatter away, Knowing it would take a very long time for Peter to regain any semblance of shape or framework to be considered a threat. Instead of dwelling on the potential future, Jon let his wings carry him to the last door at the top of the Lighthouse. He stepped through and immediately felt the well of power run dry.

He staggered, falling to his knees as the elongated limbs returned to their normal length. His vision lost the green tinge and the pain in his shoulder flared spectacularly as he coughed out a sputtering gasp of crackling static. He shivered in the cold air and with his last ounce of glamor, he altered his wings into a coat of quilted patches. The fog wasn't as thick as it had been inside, most likely Peter's doing, so there was no trouble in locating Martin.

The Lonely Lord sat quietly up against the walled railing surrounding the beacon. He looked composed and settled, or at least he'd been maneuvered into such a position. His breathing was steady and his eyes appeared quasi-present, but there was little recognition as Jon crawled over. Martin smiled ever so slightly as Jon cupped his face with two hands while the other two checked him for wounds or markings that might indicate he'd been bound or ensnared. There was a faraway quality to the smile, a drugged absence of will that shook Jon to his core.

"Martin? Martin, it-it's Jon," he said. "I sent Peter away. I just...I don't know where he's sent you."

There was no answer forthcoming. Martin continued to look at him as if he was only partially there; somewhere between dreams and the real world. Jon felt his antennae twitch as they strained themselves to make contact with the man in front of him. Jon hesitated to move closer, but he Knew there was no other course of action.

"I'm sorry," Jon whispered. "I know it's not my place, but...I think you might be lost and - and I need to find you."

He pressed their foreheads together, his antennae quickly latching on to Martin.

There was a pulse of cold wind, a gasp, and a bright green light.

And then he was falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it's always a good time when Jon gets the best of Peter.


	7. Through the Forest Have I Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Lonely Lord's memories are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took longer to write than I thought it would. Family issues have left this a rough week, so any kind words you can say about either this chapter or the fic in general would be welcome.

Martin stood at the edge of a forest with no memory of how he'd arrived. The question of "Why?" seemed pointless with the understanding that his memory was unreliable and any other questions that might shine any light on his sudden foray into the pastoral were just as irrelevant. The last thing he could remember was checking the beacon at the top of the Lighthouse. It was all clouded after that. As was his way of approaching most mysteries, Martin decided to focus on what was around him and piece together as much as he could from there.

It was early morning and the air smelled like fresh dew mixed with the heavy musk of pine and spruce. It was familiar in a way that felt foreign. A layer of fog lapped at his ankles, inviting him into the forest proper, but instead, Martin turned the other way, taking in the landscape of green pastures and sloping farm houses. One such farm house was only a few yards away and Martin was struck by that same familiarity. His eyes stung with unshed tears, but before he could come to grips with the cause, he heard the shrill scream of a woman's voice coming from the nearby farm house.

He heard the door burst open, the wood knocking against itself from door to wall. Rounding the house was a boy, maybe 12 or 13 years of age. He was all conflicting proportions, like his body was figuring itself out, which was natural given his entry into puberty. His long legs carried him at a fast pace, but his plump arms, legs, and middle slowed him ever so slightly. His shaggy head of dark curls was failing out of the loose ponytail with each impact of feet to earth. He looked over his shoulders, checking that he wasn't being chased before turning back. He was closing in of the forest and Martin only had a moment to study the boy's face.

He gasped as he stared into his own eyes, blue like the sea. The boy's speed didn't slow and Martin watched in stunned silence as his younger self ran through him like he was a ghost, rushing into the woods until there was no sign of him except the slight disturbance of fog and a few missing leaves. He continued to stare at the path made, confused and frightened by the vision set before him. His younger self had been crying. He'd also been afraid. Whatever he was running from was in the house, but...

"No, stop it, Martin," he chided himself. "This is just a bad dream. You'll wake up soon and forget all of this. It's not - it's not real."

"I wish that was true," said a deep, sonorous voice that filled him with immediate joy. There was a tickle by his ear and Martin backed away as the moth fluttered around his head. He instinctively went to bat at it, but there was a gentle tug on his wrist that stopped his hand from following through. He turned and there was a man with four arms, feathered antennae, and emerald green eyes standing in a patchwork coat. He looked nervous and out of place, but Martin found himself rushing forward, hugging him without reservations.

"Jon..." he breathed. All of Jon's arms wrapped around him, squeezing tightly.

"You - you know me?" Jon asked.

Martin pulled back, confused by the question. "Yes. Why wouldn't I?"

"It's - it's not important right now," Jon said. "Just - uh - we need to go. Now, preferably."

"Where...? Jon, where are we?" Martin asked.

"I'm not sure you want the answer to that question," he said, eyes following the same path the younger Martin had taken not moments ago. "I - I shouldn't be here, but I - I had to find you."

"Find me? Jon, I don't understand," Martin said.

Jon's upper set of hands framed Martin's face while the lower set gripped his shoulders. There was a distressed look in those deep, green eyes that spiked Martin's heartbeat instantly.

"This...This is a memory. Your memory, Martin," Jon said. "Peter - he came to the Lighthouse. He tried to make me forget, to set me up for reclamation by the Watcher. I stopped him, but he'd already sent you into the deepest corners of your mind and...and I didn't know any other way to find you. I had to bring you back."

Martin pushed away, the feelings of shame and frustration and anger pulsing through his already nerve-wrecked body. Jon didn't resist, letting him out of his grasp. "We're - you're in my head?"

"Yes. I'm - I'm sorry, Martin. I know you didn't want this, but--"

"Will I remember this when we - when we go back?"

It was a question Jon wasn't expecting. Martin had been so opposed to recovering his past that Jon was more prepared for the anger and betrayal he assumed was coming once Martin learned he'd violated his trust. Now, though, all he could read on Martin's face was uncertainty and trepidation.

"What? Um...maybe? If you want to, I suppose," Jon said.

"I--"

"Martin!" shouted a woman's voice from within the farm house. Martin froze. Her voice shattered the peaceful calm of the rural tableau as she stepped into the morning sunlight.

"Mum?" he whispered. She staggered weakly, leaning on a cane as she dragged a lame leg. Her blonde hair was ragged, frayed and greying, and her chestnut colored eyes were shadowed with sickness. There was a wild look to her, like she didn't understand the world around her except to angrily call for the one name that made any sense. Martin could see nothing of himself in her face. Where he was all rounded and soft, she was harsh and angular. Ever her nose and chin ended so sharply he feared he'd cut himself if he dared to hug her.

"Where the hell are you, you ungrateful child! Come back here!" she shouted. He heard her in English, but he knew that wasn't right.

"She should be speaking German," Martin said.

"High Alemannic, actually," Jon said. Martin looked at him, stunned. "Sorry...I have access to your memories, but my own Knowledge is providing some context."

"Okay," Martin said. He took a moment to think, his face scrunched up in a way that Jon would've found endearing if he wasn't worried for Martin's state-of-mind. There was so much fear in his eyes and Jon wanted nothing more than to spirit him away, back to what passed for happiness in the Lighthouse. He watched Martin take a deep breath, his shoulders squaring with resolve. When he looked at Jon, the fear remained, but there was determination as well.

"Tell me, Jon. Where? When? Whatever - whatever's relevant," Martin said.

"You're sure?" Jon asked.

"Not really," Martin said. The words came out in a wet laugh. "I haven't thought about this in...maybe not since I was that boy running into the woods. I - I need to know."

Jon stepped towards him, leaning in to give him a soft kiss, which Martin accepted happily.

"Alright," Jon said. The Moth focused for a moment, eyes closed, and Martin could feel the shape of his concentration as he pulled what information he could from within and outside of the memory. There was no part of him that didn't feel enveloped in Jon's care and affection. It was a strange sensation that Martin was glad to experience. Jon was trying so hard not to overstep that it made the Lonely Lord want to burst into tears at the effort.

When his eyes opened, he said, "Germany, the Schwartzwald, farmlands outside the township of Schiltach, 1848."

Once again, Martin looked at Jon with a stunned expression. There was little time for Jon to react as Martin's mother neared the forest boarder where they stood.

"Just like your father!" she shouted into the depths of the forest. The leaves seemed to shiver in response. "Running away when things get too hard! Weak! Soft! To hell with you! Starve yourself, if you must! You'll be back by nightfall begging for scraps!"

Jon scowled furiously at the memory of a hateful woman, but Martin's expression was conflicted with love and regret. He reached out as if to comfort her, but his hands passed right through her as she stumbled away.

"I wish I could understand why she - why she hated me so much," Martin said. He faced Jon, the sun making his tears shine like diamonds. "Was there ever a time when she loved me?"

Jon took his hand and focused once again. The memory began to shift as they found themselves in the forest on the edge of a blooming grove that seemed unnatural for the environment.

"How did you do that?" Martin asked. "This - this is _my_ mind, _my_ memories. You shouldn't be able to--"

"I'm pulling the Knowledge - the historical truth - from the outside and filtering it through your mind," Jon said. "They're not your memories, but this is what happened before."

"Before what?"

"Before you were born."

There was a soft whistle that wafted through the grove. A young woman, no more than seventeen, entered the clearing. The midday sun highlighted her loose hair of spun gold and her vibrant brown eyes alive with curiosity and mischief. She was dressed modestly, but once she was in the presence of the magical setting it was much easier to adjust her clothes into something far more risque.

"That's...my mum?" Martin said, unable to reconcile the spirited youth before him with the haggard woman she became.

There was another soft whistle from the opposite side of the grove. The girl twirled in the direction of the sound, her surprise immediately transitioning to elation as her mysterious consort revealed themself. Martin's jaw dropped as he stared at a more confident and mature version of his own face. The blue eyes that he always associated with sea breeze and brine looked more like clear pools from a fresh spring. The curls that were unruly and frazzled on his head draped past the man's shoulders like perfect coils of dark ivy. He was a tall, burly fellow, but not in the bulky way that Martin found his own body shaped. And everywhere along his skin - that itself had a light green tint to it - there were sprouting growths of flowers, moss, and bark.

"My father's a...a..." he was at a loss for words.

"Forest spirit," Jon supplied, quietly. "Wild man, Green Man, woodwose."

His mother and father met in the middle of the grove, melting into one another as their lips met. They sank to the soft grass and Martin immediately turned away.

"I don't need to see _that_ , Jon," he said, face bright with embarrassment. Jon chuckled lightly as he took Martin's hand again. There was a few seconds where Martin felt the world shift again, but he only knew it was done when Jon gave a light squeeze.

"You're okay to look now," Jon said, gently.

They were still in the grove. His mother and father were, thankfully, dressed and he watched his mother take his father's hand and place it over her belly. She looked at him with hopeful eyes while his were scared beyond measure. She tugged at his hand, indicating that she wished for him to follow her towards the edge of the forest. Beyond that was the human world and Martin saw his father's hesitation. His mother saw it too, but she continued to pull him along and he reluctantly followed.

Jon squeezed his hand again and he watched the forest disappear, replaced by the interior of a farm house, likely the one from which he'd seen his younger self escaping. His mother was fully pregnant, placing a steaming plate of food on the table where his father sat listlessly. He looked smaller, his skin paler against the crackling of the firelight. Martin could see nothing of the forest in him anymore, though it was obvious he wasn't entirely human either. His mother gave him a strained smile, setting a tankard of ale in front of him that he drank from greedily.

"Please, Heinrich, eat something," his mother pleaded.

His father continued to drink.

"I-I think I know where this is going," Martin whispered. "Could we...could we skip ahead?"

Jon pulled him closer, another arm curled around his shoulders protectively. Another shift in time and there was little Martin, a spirited and curious toddler squealing in delight as his mother chased him around the main room.

"I've got you, love!!" she cried.

She caught him easily, peppering his face with kisses as he giggled. She whispered something in his ear and the little boy quickly rushed off, returning with a crudely bound book that looked like it had been fished out of a river at some point. He sat in her lap, bathed in firelight and snuggled in as she began to read to him.

There was no sign of his father anywhere.

Martin did nothing to stop the deluge of tears pouring down his face. He was now watching a memory that often seeped into his dreams, a moment where he felt loved and protected. He could hear his mother's voice, plain as day, and he felt as warmed by the sound as he did the fire behind him. He saw the toddler version of himself struggle to keep his eyes open, desperate to stay awake and stay in the moment as if he knew his future self might need more of this time and place to hold onto.

Time jumped ahead and Martin watched his nine-year-old self, still short and squat, attempt to heave a sack of potatoes on to a weathered wooden cart hitched to an elderly mare. He misjudged the weight and the angle and watched in horror as the sack fell open and the potatoes spilled into the mud. Panicking, Martin fell to his knees, digging the tubers out and trying to wipe them off only to get more mud on them in the effort.

"No, no, no!" little Martin shouted, covering his mouth immediately as he realized his mistake.

The door to the farm house opened and there was a much more familiar vision of his mother. She limped angrily, pain visible in every new line and wrinkle on her face with each step she took.

"One of the horses kicked her the year before," Martin said. "Shattered her leg, but she wouldn't let them amputate. She was in so much pain after that. I was taking supplies into town to trade for morphine."

"You remember that?" Jon asked.

Martin nodded, watching his mother shout at him to go inside and clean up while she stuffed the sack with the muddy potatoes. He watched her dig out several stones as well, throwing them into the sack. She cinched the burlap tightly, checking the weight, before hefting it into the cart. When younger Martin returned, he offered to help her stand, eyes wide and fearful as she slapped his hand away and picked herself up using the cart.

"Don't dawdle," his mother said. "Get the sack's weight in coin and hurry back with the medicine."

"Yes, mum," young Martin said. She limped back into the house, the door slamming shut in her wake.

Jon tried to hold him closer, but it was impossible. Instead, he jumped them ahead and Martin realized they were inside the house with the version of himself he'd seen run into the forest. Thirteen-year-old Martin was much taller, wearing clothes that didn't quite fit his gangling limbs. He was preparing breakfast, his eyes tired from lack of sleep as he spooned porridge into a wooden bowl. He walked into the main room where his mother sat miserably in her chair, waiting for him to arrive. 

He tripped, falling as the bowl of porridge slipped from his fingers and spilled on the floor. He looked up into his mother's eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

"You expect me to eat that?" she shouted.

"No, mum, I-I'll clean it up," Martin said as he scurried to his feet.

"And how much do we have remaining?"

"...Enough for another bowl. Maybe."

"So, we'll both starve because of your clumsiness," she pushed.

"It'll be fine," Martin said. "I'll figure something out."

"No," she said, sternly, pointing at the spilt porridge, "you'll eat the consequences of your faults."

"Mum, please..."

"Eat it, you ungrateful thing," she said, her voice teeming with barely contained anger. "I sacrificed everything for you. Everything. So you'll eat what I tell you to when I tell you to."

Young Martin stared at his mother, tears in his eyes. It was a moment older Martin could see vividly now, the fog lifted from every corner of his mind. This was the last time he'd look at her. It was the last time he'd hear her voice. It was the last time he'd let her degrade him. He was done living under her spiteful control.

"No," younger Martin said. His mother tried to stand, but Martin was quicker, throwing the door open and running off towards the forest with little thought given as to where he was headed. He just knew he had to get away.

Martin and Jon followed his younger self, running only a pace behind him as he ran deeper and deeper into the woods. The further in the more fog surrounded them. It became thick enough that the teenager slowed to avoid running into branches and thorns. He continued walking, wondering only briefly why he no longer felt the brush of leaves against his arms and legs but heard the sound of water crashing against rocks.

The fog continued to thicken until the young man could barely see the world around him. The tears that rolled down his cheeks stung like ice in the chilled air. Then he wondered why he was crying. He turned but forgot which direction he'd come from. Had he been running before? Where was he headed?

"What have we here?" said a voice that was eerily familiar to the two witnesses.

"H-hello?" said young Martin. "Who - who's there?"

The air swirled around the young man as the outline of a bearded sea captain appeared. He was made of mist and fog and he unnervingly smelled of salt and thick cloud.

"Where are you running to, Little Lord?" Peter asked.

Younger Martin breathed heavily in a cold panic as his mind came up blank. "I - I don't know."

"There now, lad, it's alright," said the air spirit in a tone that was meant to be comforting but dripped with condescension. "Why don't you come with me and we'll get you sorted?"

"Um...I shouldn't..."

"Have you got a name?" the captain asked, curiously.

"Mmmartin," he said, pushing the name out with every ounce of will he had left. He felt lightheaded in the presence of the person before him. He stumbled forward, afraid to fall through nothing and surprised to find that the sea captain appeared more solid. He held him up, putting a supportive arm under him.

"Well, Martin, I'm Peter and I'm here to take you home," he said.

"Home?" Martin asked, his eyes filling with tears for reasons he couldn't understand. They began to walk further into the fog, Peter's cold patronage wrapping tighter and tighter around Martin as they journeyed ahead.

"Yes, lad. Home."

The memory faded and Martin fell to his knees in the liminal space of his mind. Jon knelt next to him, all of his arms wrapped around the Lonely Lord.

"It's alright, Martin," Jon said, his voice low and soothing.

Martin shook his head. "I - I left her, Jon," he said. "I ran away and I-I left her. I left her all alone."

"You were a child, Martin," Jon said. "You didn't know this would happen."

"I forgot her...on purpose. I didn't want to remember her. I didn't want to remember what I did to her," Martin said, his eyes distant with regret. Jon lifted Martin's chin, guiding his face so they were looking at each other. He didn't want Martin staring into the fog anymore than was necessary. What was important now was getting back to the real world.

"What about what she did to _you_?" Jon asked. He stroked Martin's dark curls, following the path to his cheeks to dash away his tears. "You deserve love as well, Martin. You deserve so much love and she denied you what should have been freely given."

"Her life...it was hard," Martin said, his defense of her half-hearted at best.

"That doesn't mean she had to treat you the way she did," Jon said. "I can understand it. Relate to it, even. You didn't want to hurt anymore. You wanted to escape."

"And abandoned her," Martin said, miserably. The surrounding fog began to close in and Jon was certain it was the Forsaken trying to reclaim its Lonely Lord. Whatever magic Peter had used on Martin meant there were plenty of cracks for the wisps of uncertainty and loss to break through if unattended. Jon pressed their foreheads together, letting his antennae touch Martin's head in a mirror of their positions in the real world.

"I know it hurts, but you are so much more than this one moment," Jon said. Martin hummed in disagreement, but Jon continued. "I know it feels safer to let it fall away again. But, please, Martin, please remember. Remember and come back with me."

Martin's fingers entwined with his lower hands as he nudged Jon's forehead with his.

"I just want to go home."

Jon smiled. "Alright. Let's go home."

***

Martin opened his eyes, taking in the familiar smell and feel of the Lighthouse on the Pale Sea. When he thought about where he'd been and what he saw the memories came to him without resistance. There was time enough to engage with what he'd been through, but, for now, he was more concerned with the Jon-sized lump sagging against him. The Moth looked exhausted, dark circles prominent under his emerald eyes. He shivered and Martin instinctively hugged him for warmth, feeling the cold even through the glamored coat.

"Think I need to go to bed," Jon mumbled.

"That makes two of us," Martin said. He lifted Jon easily, standing tall in the thin mist. Jon's arms went to hold on as they rose, but he hissed in pain, bringing attention to the small bloodstain on his shoulder. "Jon, did you reopen your wound?"

"Peter..." Jon said, breathing sharply as Martin walked them inside the Lighthouse.

"Shh, it's okay," Martin said, gently. "We'll get you sorted and then bed rest for, like, a week."

Jon's arms looped around the Lonely Lord's neck and around his waist. He looked up at him, drowsiness pulling him down faster than he realized. "You'll stay...with me?"

Martin kissed him, slow and easy.

"I'm not going anywhere."


	8. You Sulfurous and Thought-Executing Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon finds himself distracted by firelight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the story is winding down. My energy levels are getting low as well, so maybe a few more chapters and then I'm gonna call it. The story will end, but I don't have it in me to go as long as 14 Labors. That one had a rough structure while this story was, not experimental, but an exercise in writing a different type of AU than I'm used to.
> 
> Your comments and kudos have been extraordinarily positive and I plan on giving you as much as I can to finish the story right and give you a, hopefully, satisfying ending.
> 
> Updates might be a bit more infrequent, but I'm going to try and give y'all a good one to go out on.

It wasn't as easy to bounce back this time around. The Spider's poison had weakened Jon considerably even before Peter's intrusion. Fighting against the Lord of Severance, discovering latent abilities, and retrieving Martin from the depths of his own mind left the Moth exhausted, drained of any energy he had before he was awake long enough to eat breakfast. He was asleep more than he was conscious and Martin found himself pacing worriedly with guilt at the part he'd played in causing Jon's current condition.

The nightmares doubled Martin's guilt as Jon suffered through sleepless nights, screaming himself awake and collapsing against the Lonely Lord with sunken, bleary eyes in desperate need of peace. Martin held him close, whispering softly into his ears as Jon's four arms snaked around him in a tight embrace. He stroked Jon's hair, fleeting sparks of Knowledge flashing into his mind as his fingers brushed against the antennae. Jon seemed to calm under those small ministrations and Martin couldn't begrudge him such comforts.

It was slow going but, finally, after a week of barely contained helplessness and unadulterated mother-henning, Jon was on the mend. There were less nightmares and he was awake longer and longer, enough to eat and chat before napping and starting the process all over again. Half-way into the second week and he was out of bed and they were mutually fussing over one another as Jon engaged in a battle of wills to force Martin to rest.

Their small war of stubbornness would inspire poets one day.

"I'm going to make you some tea," Jon said, insistently. "Sit and enjoy it, for the sake of all that is pure and incandescent in this world!"

"Wait, Jon, I--"

Jon turned, his wings settled on an ornately decorated burnous that practically fluttered in irritation. His antennae curled back immediately in sync with the narrowing of his eyes still brimmed with exhausted shadows, but lively and green as ever.

"Sit. And enjoy. Some tea," Jon said. To emphasize the order, all four of his hands pointed downward in the same, sharp motion. Martin closed his mouth, any protests eradicated by Jon's assertive tone. He sat in his comfy chair situated by a lengthy window in the study. He'd brought a second chair into the room for Jon, placing it opposite him. Between them was a small table where they took their tea and read either silently or together, a recorder always present when they read out loud. Their routine had been neglected as of late, but Jon was determined to return to some semblance of normalcy despite the very abnormal occurrences happening around them. Martin could only fight him for so long before he had to give in and let him take charge for a bit.

When Jon returned with their tea, he sheepishly looked away as he set the drinks down.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I was - I was out of line speaking to you like that."

Martin took the closest hand to him, earning him a surprised look from Jon as their eyes met.

"Nothing to apologize for," Martin said. "I'm, uh, I'm not used to someone wanting to take care of me."

Jon blushed, settling into his chair without letting go of Martin's hand. "Well, get used to it."

"Jon..."

"Sorry. Sorry," he said, picking up his tea with one of his free hands. "I'm still very tired, which makes me irritable."

"I think I'm only going to let you get away with that excuse a few more times," Martin said, a smile curling around his lips as he drank.

"Fair enough," Jon said.

They sat in comfortable silence until they both felt the shifting tension coming from the other. There were plenty of things unsaid that needed to be discussed and neither was inclined to start the conversation. Martin sighed when he realized it was either going to be him to break the quiet or they'd be sitting here for ages.

"So...that thing you did with your antennae," he started. "You helped me once by sharing your Knowledge, but...after what Peter did...that seemed like a lot, even for you."

Jon took his time as he considered Martin's observation.

"I think - I think Moths are more powerful than we've been led to believe," Jon said. He looked out the window, staring across the mist covered ocean. "I entered your mind and altered your memories as easily as I could breathe the air. I practically decimated Peter out of anger and - and fear. I think - I think there's so much more that I'm capable of, but I don't know what it is yet. And..."

"And...?" Martin asked.

"And I'm scared of it," Jon confessed. Martin set his tea down so he was free to take another of Jon's hands.

"It's alright to be scared," he said. "I learned I'm the son of a forest spirit. I have no idea what that means for me or the part I play in the Forsaken."

Jon allowed himself a tight smile. "I'm glad you remembered."

"But I didn't want to," Martin said. "I've been running from those memories since I got here. I was so ashamed of what happened with my mother and that shame became a century's worth of fear. I don't know what would've changed if I'd held on to my memories from the beginning, but...I can't imagine I was a better person for letting myself become lost for so long."

"You're a caretaker, Martin," Jon said, the strict line of his mouth relaxing into a natural smile. "It seems only right that some aspect of nature would come through, even if you didn't understand its true purpose. But this - this power is so massive. I..."

Martin let him find his words. Jon didn't need encouragement, he was already willing to talk at this point. All Martin could do was wait for the words to spill out.

"I survived the Acquisition, but just barely," Jon confessed. "I was in a, I guess you'd call it a coma, for weeks. The Matrons said I'd cry out and ramble intermittently about doorways and strangers and - and a scarred building on a hilltop. They were ready to give up on me. Then I woke up."

"And you think that's where this power came from?" Martin asked.

"Maybe? We're only told to utilize the Knowledge we receive, nothing else. I don't know of any other Moths who've manifested powers beyond what the Panopticon and the Watcher claim we've been bestowed." He grimaced, his antennae curling in anger. "Given their track record for obfuscation and revisionism, I'd be surprised if there were any reliable accounts much less living Moths with whom I could converse."

Martin nodded, a decision made that Jon was unaware of. "Then we'll just have to experiment."

Jon stared at him as he picked up his tea again. "What?"

"If you know the extent of what you're capable of, then you won't be as frightened of it," Martin said, matter-of-factly. "Therefore, we experiment."

"We?"

"Yes, I'm not letting you do this alone."

"And I'm not going to treat you like a guinea pig."

"Then how do you propose we figure this out? Tarot cards? Crystal ball? I could read your tea leaves when you're done," Martin suggested, though the exasperation was as much in the tone of his voice as it was written all over his face.

"I'm not hurting you for the sake of my own advancement," Jon said. "What if I..."

Jon happened to glance out the window again as he took another sip of tea. His body stilled, his eyes wide with a look of curious trepidation. The distress was obvious, but Jon made no effort to turn away or signal to Martin that he needed help. He only continued to stare out the window.

"Jon? Jon, what's--? Is something out there?" Martin asked. He looked out the window. The only difference he could see across the vast ocean of fog was a pinprick of orange light that flickered in and out of focus.

"I...I...I ha-have to..." Jon's hands lost hold of Martin's, limply falling away as he began to stand. The slack hold he'd had on Martin applied to the teacup and saucer, the former falling from his grasp as hot tea spilled all over and the porcelain shattered on the floor.

"Jon!" Martin shouted.

The pain of searing liquid on his trousers snapped Jon out of what had ensnared him. He hissed in pain, darting away from the shards scattered around his feet. When he looked out the window again the light was gone.

"Easy, easy," Martin said as he looked Jon over, standing between the Moth and the window for good measure. "We'll need to get a cold compress on your leg. Are you alright? Any cuts? Burns in places I can't see?"

"Just my pride and a newly found throbbing headache," Jon said. "I think - I think I should lie down."

"Okay," Martin said. There was no hiding his worry, but he tried to keep it as below the surface as possible for Jon's sake. He was already in a vulnerable position, recovering after multiple attacks with the Watcher likely ready to release another salvo. Whatever this was, Martin knew he needed to be vigilant.

As long as they were together, as long as they were in the Lighthouse, he could protect Jon

Though he wasn't sure if Jon was the only one who needed protecting.

***

The next few days went about the same. Jon continued to recover, they discussed how they might test his newfound abilities, they argued over testing his abilities, and about midway through the day Jon would become distracted by the mysterious light in the distance. But it wasn't just a distraction, it was a compulsion, a need that Jon couldn't ignore. When he saw the orange glow of the light, all thoughts ceased and turned their attention to its hypnotic dance beyond the Lighthouse. Jon was drawn to it, unable to banish it from his mind. Martin noticed the light was getting closer as well, the distance between it and Jon diminishing by the day. More worrisome was the time it took to snap Jon out of the spell he was under each time the light appeared.

It was late into the night when Jon cried out in pain, jolting Martin into wakefulness like he had so many times before. The cry was different, Martin could hear it and understood the nuance as sure as he could interpret Jon's mood by the movements of his antennae. He was in pain, real pain, and Martin could feel the heat radiating from his body. Jon had untangled himself from Martin at some point during the night and now he was curled in on himself, protecting his injury from further harm.

"Jon. Jon - Jon, let me - What happened, love?" Martin asked. He tried to maneuver Jon towards him, but the Moth whimpered in protest. Turning on the light, Martin hurried off his side and rounded the bed to face Jon. His eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, a sheen of sweat covering his face that had Martin running through every possible fever reducer he had at his disposal. From this angle, he could tell that Jon was keeping one of his arms stiffly against his chest.

"Jon, can you hear me? It's Martin," he said, calmly. He gently laid his hands on what appeared to be Jon's uninjured arms. Jon shivered, anticipating pain, but his eyes widened as they focused on Martin.

"M-Martin," Jon said in a painful whisper. "I-I don't..."

"Shhh, it's alright. It's alright. Just let me see where you're hurt," Martin said.

"I was - It was - I couldn't--" He was already starting to lose focus. Martin carefully took Jon's face in his hands. He fought against the sudden urge to pull away from the heat. Instead, his soothingly pushed his sweat-soaked hair back from his face, letting the drooping antennae spark and thrum with recognition as he stroked them lovingly.

"Let me help, Jon," he said, quietly. "Let me see."

Jon nodded, slowly straightening his body to reveal his arm.

There was nothing wrong. All of his arms looked perfectly normal. No injuries to speak of, no blood or wounds to tend to.

Martin let out a sigh of relief, but the distress in Jon's eyes was very real.

"It's okay, Jon," Martin said, running his fingers along the proffered arm. "See? Nothing to worry about. All present and accounted for."

"It - it was so--" Jon started, eyes still staring at his arm with anxious confusion. "It was so real."

"What was?" Martin asked. Jon continued to stare. "Was it your dream?"

Jon nodded.

"What did you dream about?" Martin asked.

"The light," Jon said. "But it wasn't just as light. It was a fire, beautiful and dangerous. It called to me without words and I followed it without question. When the chase finally stopped, all I wanted was to be closer to its brilliance. I needed to know what it was. I needed to understand it. I had to See it. I had to watch it. I reached out to touch it."

"And it burned you," Martin said.

"I was consumed by it," Jon said, his voice filled with dread and wonder. "At first, I was happy to be chosen as its sacrifice, like it was the most obvious thing for me to do. Then, I heard laughter. Someone was laughing at me and it was familiar. I knew who it belonged to even without Knowing."

"Who, Jon?"

"The Watcher," Jon said. "He was there. He saw me, even in my dreams I can't...I tried to escape the fire, but...it was too late. I felt every agonizing moment until I could no longer hold in the screams."

"And you woke up. Complete with phantom pains," Martin finished. Jon nodded. Martin kissed the palm they'd both assumed was injured, massaging it gently to show Jon how unharmed and uninjured he was.

"It was just a dream, Jon," Martin said. "It can't hurt you. Not really."

"I - I don't think that's true," Jon said. He didn't sound defensive or angry, just tired. Martin couldn't blame him.

"Budge over," Martin said.

Jon scooted away from the edge so Martin could get back into bed, snaking his arms around Martin's middle. Both sighed in relief at the comfort of the other's presence. Jon had calmed down enough that he was no longer acting as a one-Moth furnace, but he still shivered with remnants of the pain he felt from the dream. Martin held on tighter after each wave, reassuring Jon that he was safe and protected.

But he wasn't, not really, and they both knew that.

It was a long time before either fell back to sleep.

***

They were out on the shoreline, taking an afternoon walk to find more stone and seaglass for Jon's collection, when the firelight seemed to burn through the fog, revealing itself to be much closer than they expected. Martin couldn't recall any small islands out on the Pale Sea, but he could only profess to know certain sections of the domain and not the whole of it. He thought they'd have more time to walk before going inside. He thought he had more time to protect Jon from the siren's call of the flame.

The fire seemed to know their routine and spat upon what they perceived as safety.

"Jon, we need to go inside," Martin said, reaching for limp hands that didn't grasp back. Jon was already enthralled, the fire reflected in his ever widening eyes. The fur-lined coat that hugged his body fell away as his wings carried him into the sky.

"Jon!" Martin shouted. He kept hold of the unwilling hand, pulling as hard as he could to bring Jon back, anchoring him in spite of the firelight's temptation. He felt it, for just a moment, when Jon's hand squeezed back. He made the mistake of loosening his grip, giving the Moth just enough room to pull away. Jon didn't look back as he flew away towards the flame.

Cursing a string of expletives that he'd blush at later, Martin rushed back to the Lighthouse, feet carrying him to the small but well kept dock. Normally, it was a landing for lost boats or deliveries from other domains, but Martin always kept a small rowboat tied to the dock in case he needed to head farther into the sea for a quick rescue. There were no oars, but once Martin untied the boat he whispered to the water to take him where he wanted to go. The boat moved at the discretion of the Lonely Lord and he willed it to follow Jon towards the flames.

***

Jon could think of nothing else except the dancing flame that cast its warm, enticing light across the cold waters of the Forsaken. The distance was negligible and when his feet finally touched soft sand, he gladly sank to his knees before the great bonfire that had haunted and bewitched him for days. He couldn't see anyone who might have created or lit the fire until the hiss and pop of crackling wood showed him the form of a woman stepping through the rising blaze.

She was beautiful, a maiden of pure fire with eyes like searing points of amber light. As she approached, he could feel the excruciating heat as amber turned into radiant blue. He knew this being was too blistering to be seen, too torrid to be touched and yet he could not move his body nor could he close his eyes. She stopped a few feet from where he knelt, observing him delightedly.

"Such beautiful eyes," she said. Her voice was acrid and scalding, burning his ears with every exhale. His antennae flicked back, trying in vain to escape the curling smoke that ensnared his senses as she moved closer. "Are you curious about what's beyond the flame?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

"Would you like to Know?" she asked, stepping closer.

"Yes."

She bent low, her lips brushing his ear with a scorching smile. "Will you submit to the Fire's love? Let it consume you until you are a wisp of ash?"

"I..." His antennae flicked again. His body shook against the searing heat and the wrongness of her words.

She ghosted her lips across his, leaving a trail of puckering skin and white hot agony.

"Do you think your mind would survive the boiling fury of the Lightless Flame? Would there be anything left for the Watcher to reclaim?" she asked.

"Please..." Jon said, a portion of his mind finally waking up. "Please, don't hurt him."

"Who? Your lonely paramour?" she asked. Jon strained to nod. "No need to worry, my darling Moth. I'm only here for you. I'm sure the fog will call him back once you're gone and you'll only be a vague shadow in the candlelight. Does that bring you peace?"

The sting of tears was ten-fold as salt hit his burnt cheeks. Still, he nodded against the pain. "Yes."

She hovered near his lips again, her cruelty as sweltering as the inferno behind her. The smell of sulfur filled his nose as he breathed in her intoxicating scent. Smoke danced along his skin, seeping into every pore until any fight left in him was snuffed out. He wanted nothing more than to embrace the pyre and be devoured.

"Do you love me, Moth?" she asked. Flames nipped at his tongue. Every nerve ending was alight as his vision narrowed and blurred, his slow suffocation masked by pleasure and pain.

"Yes."

"Then give us a kiss."

"Get away from him!" shouted the booming echo of the Lonely Lord. Jon barely moved, but the Fire Maiden whipped her head around as Martin trudged up the sandy hill. The fog swirled around him like translucent armor and the Pale Sea rose to follow its master until the little island was barely a patch of sand solid enough to stand upon.

The Fire Maiden smiled, standing defiantly. "Do you wish to leave me, Moth?" 

She placed her hand beneath Jon's chin, lifting his head so Martin could see the distance in his eyes.

"No," Jon responded.

"Do you love me, Moth?"

"Yes."

"Jon...Jon, snap out of it!" Martin shouted.

"Would you die for me, Moth?"

"Yes."

"No, Jon, this isn't - this isn't you!"

"Does the fire call to you?"

"Yes."

"Then go to it, my Love. Go with my blessing."

Jon stood, swaying heavily. He didn't see the Fire Maiden engage in battle with the Lonely Lord. He didn't hear the distant shouts from Martin as he commanded the sea and mist to strike. He didn't smell the bursts of brine and phosphorous. All he saw was the great fire that had called to him, the guiding light that would satisfy his curiosity and stifle his incessant need to Know and See. He staggered towards the fire, barely registering the painful grit of sand between his toes and the muddy soup it was becoming as the Pale Sea attempted to slow his pace.

A hand reached out from the fire as he approached. It stayed still and calm, but the invitation was clear. Jon went to take it.

Until he saw the Watcher's Eye in the flickering haze.

"No," Jon whispered.

More arms extended from the fire, all of them finding purchase on Jon's body; branding his skin with their desire for power and control.

"Hello...Jon, is it?" said the Watcher. The voice was in his mind. He pushed against it as he forced his body away from the myriad hands attempting to subdue him.

"No," Jon said as he scrambled away from the fire, falling into the salty water. There was only pain, in his mind and on his body. He could hear the Watcher laughing in its wake, its amusement an aggravating insult to what Jon had already suffered. The Pale Sea quickly swallowed the fire, the cold hue of the Forsaken once again in place, before receding enough to allow Jon to stand again. The Watcher's laugh lingered. He could hear it as clearly as he could smell smoke on his skin.

Martin's continuing battle with the Fire Maiden snapped his senses into place again, though Jon could feel a vague numbness at the edge of everything just as the world took on a familiar green filter. As he rose from the ground, he felt his limbs elongate. The world around him was crystalline and bright. There wasn't a corner of his surroundings he couldn't See, like his eyes were everywhere at once. His wings beat in tandem with his heart, powerful and steady.

When he looked at Martin, his heart swelled instantly. Martin, his Martin, who commanded the domain of the Forsaken to save him. A Moth.

Well...more than a Moth. Now he was something different, something unknown.

And the Watcher wouldn't stop until he returned to the Panopticon.

He pushed those thoughts away as he faced the Fire Maiden.

She was too engrossed in the thrill of inflicting pain on the Lonely Lord. She didn't hear the silent thrumming of wings from behind her. She didn't feel the air shift and recoil. But she felt his eyes on her. She felt the charred remains of her thoughts as he set her mind ablaze. She felt the cold reality of his pain.

And then she felt nothing.

***

Martin watched Jon change before his eyes. He'd always presented himself as man-like with Moth features. Whatever glamor he'd channeled altered the ratio as he became more Moth than Martin had ever seen. His entire body grew in stature and size, his arms and legs elongated to unnatural lengths. His wings were beating so fast they practically disappeared until Jon seemed to hover in place. Then his eyes opened. All of his eyes opened. One after the other, bright green lights appeared like a smattering of freckles around his face, across his upper chest and shoulders, and along the frame of his wings.

He couldn't recall anything in Faerie that looked like Jon.

He was beautiful.

Jon's movements were swift and effortless. He landed behind the Fire Maiden, though she didn't appear to notice his change or his position. As he hovered there, nothing happened, at least from the outside. It wasn't until the Fire Maiden screamed, hands covering her head as she simultaneously froze and shook in agony. There was nothing but torment etched into her face until the screaming finally stopped and she collapsed into the wet sand.

There was no time to get a better look at Jon's changed form. In a blink he'd reverted back to himself, but Martin could see the inevitable collapse as well. He rushed forward, getting an arm under Jon's as he slumped into his chest with a tired sigh.

"Hey - hey, you with me?" Martin asked. He cupped Jon's face, mindful of the burns as he tried to gently keep the Moth awake. Jon's half-lidded eyes looked at him with warm recognition. He tried to burrow his face into Martin's shirt, snaking his arms around the Lonely Lord's middle.

"I'm still here," Jon whispered. "I'm still here."


	9. Exit, Pursued by a Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Watcher sends its last Hunter.

The way Martin told it, Jon sounded like the most heroic figure in all of Faerie. Days after their encounter with the Fire Maiden and Martin was still giddily recounting his transformation and her subsequent smiting. Jon listened intently, watching Martin's eyes light up in awe as his hands acted out the motions. He was slightly limited by their position in bed with Jon nestled into the cradle of one arm, but Martin was a capable man and he found a way to make the retelling just as entertaining with only one unoccupied arm.

"And I blocked the stream of fire she sent at me, diving out of the way," he said, setting the scene for the grand finale. Jon couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped. He quickly nuzzled against Martin's chest, trying to hide the ever growing smile on his face. "Shhh, Jon, I'm getting to the best part."

"Apologies," he mumbled into Martin's skin. "Continue."

"I was scrambling out of the sand, the water receding just enough for me to notice the bonfire had been put out. But instead of an orange light, there was a flash of green that spread as far as the moonlight could reach," Martin said. Jon smiled fondly at the imagery. For all the poetry Martin had on the shelves in the study, he was just as talented a poet and storyteller as the authors he idolized. "I looked up and there you were: taller, sleeker, an angel with moth wings and emerald eyes glittering along your skin. My eyes met all of yours, briefly, and then you moved with ruthless efficiency behind the Fire Maiden. You hovered there, resplendent and beautiful, and it seemed as though you were prepared to remain her shadow, waiting for the right moment to strike. She made ready her next attack, unaware of your presence until her expression fell and her eyes widened. She gripped her head and let out a primordial scream that would shake even the most apathetic resident of the Forsaken to their core. With a shudder and a whimper, she collapsed into the sand. Never to be seen again."

Jon clapped with two of his free hands, sighing contentedly into Martin's embrace.

"It's a good story, Martin," he said. "Very romantic."

"Ya know, there was a moment where I felt you watching me," Martin said. He looked down, catching Jon's gaze. "Right before you finished her off. It was seconds but...it was like being seen and known and loved all at once. I - I don't think I've ever felt something so strongly."

Jon pressed against Martin, trying to banish any empty space between them. Even with the other Moths, though they'd loved each other, he'd always felt like a vestigial limb in the romance of Him and Her. It was nothing they did to make him feel unloved or unappreciated, but he knew there was more between the two of them than he had with either. His decision to stay with Her instead of escaping was proof enough. With Martin, however, he understood now what would make someone stay behind despite imminent danger. There were few things Jon could think of that would make him leave Martin willingly.

He didn't know how to say that to Martin without mucking it up.

Unraveling his arms from around Martin, Jon sat up against the headboard. His eyes mapped the man lying beside him, taking in the scope of a person who was worthy of adoration and love. His fingers delicately ghosted across Martin's skin, feeling his pulse increase as goosebumps formed in his wake. He took Martin's closest hand in two of his own, kissing each finger, one by one. Martin watched, speechless, as Jon leaned down to kiss his shoulder, moving along the the line of his collarbone, the curve of his neck, and the shape of his jawline until they were face to face and Jon was practically lying on top of him.

The Moth pressed their foreheads together and Martin felt the antennae gently caress his head, those familiar sparks of knowledge vibrating with excitement.

"Jon..." he whispered, unsure of what was about to happen.

Jon froze, realizing his mistake. "Do - do you trust me, Martin?"

"Yes, of course," Martin said without hesitation.

Jon smiled, framing Martin's face gently. "Then let me show you just how loved you are."

The antennae pulsed against his head and Martin felt the full strength of Jon's love. There was no part of the Lonely Lord that was denied attention or care. He was fully encased in a tapestry of sensations that all pointed back to Jon. He could feel his devotion in every touch of skin to skin. He could taste his passion in every kiss. He could hear his joy in every nervous laugh and in the hum of fluttering wings. The love Martin had always craved was secured in Jon's heart and with it Martin felt like he could soar by his side. Waves of pleasure washed over him as every nerve ending tingled and sparked with newfound invigoration.

It wasn't enough to be Seen and Known and Loved by Jon, though. No, Martin had to return it. He wasn't sure how, but the best he could surmise was to send as much of his coherent thoughts and emotions along the whatever wavelength Jon was using. As more euphoria engulfed him, he sent the same jolt of ecstasy across the frequency. He wasn't sure if it worked the same for a non-Moth, but he had to at least try and let Jon feel even a morsel of what he'd allowed Martin to devour.

He heard Jon gasp amid the haze of bliss. He smiled pleasantly to himself in victory. They pressed together, letting their bodies revel in mutual desire. Jon's mouth was on his and Martin could no longer tell where he began and Jon ended. They were just energy and information dancing in the space of warmth and worship. When their shared veneration finally reached its peak, he felt Jon collapse into his arms, breathing heavily as the last vibrations moved through them.

He hadn't realized his eyes were closed until he opened them to find Jon staring at him, an astonished smile forming quickly.

"You - you are amazing, Martin," Jon breathed, kissing him again.

"Is that - is that what it's always like? With Moths?" Martin asked, too dumbfounded and spent to ask anything else.

Jon chuckled, stroking Martin's cheeks contentedly.

"More or less," Jon said.

"Wow," Martin said. "None of those romance novels even come close to this."

Jon's laugh was like music and Martin made a note to always try and hear that song again.

***

The guest room was now Jon's work room where he kept his stone and sea glass collections as well as the tapes he continued to record. He was just outside the door, ready to drop off his haul of stones to be polished when he Knew there was someone waiting for him inside. He took a deep breath, understanding that this moment had been in the making since he'd escaped the Panopticon. He'd always been on borrowed time, but it was only since his confrontation with the Fire Maiden that he understood the futility of his situation.

He entered the room to find his former wolfkin smuggler seated at his work table. Her mantle of pelts hung loosely over her thin frame, much thinner than when he'd seen her last. Her long, haystack colored hair had been shorn to the roots, the scabs created by carelessly quick blades still in various stages of healing. There were new scars on every visible path of skin and her eyes were sunken, feral as though she'd been denied food for weeks.

"Daisy, what--?"

"Barely made it out of the Slaughtered Fields," she said, her voice raw from disuse or prolonged screaming. Probably both. "Got back to the Panopticon. The Watcher Saw me."

"You're here for me, then?" he asked.

She nodded, though he could see the conflict in her eyes. "The Watcher took my Love. Said I had to bring you back before I could see Them again."

"I'm - I'm sorry, Daisy, I--"

"Your Lonely Lord, he calls you Jon, right?" she asked. Jon nodded. "I'm to kill him if you won't cooperate. If you kill me before I can, there are two more wolfkin on the way to finish the job. They're not as inclined to offer an explanation as I am."

Jon swallowed heavily, nodding again in understanding.

"There's no convincing you otherwise, is there?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. "What - what if I showed you what I can do? I've discovered so much about myself, so much of what Moths are actually capable of while I've been here. Maybe - maybe there's something we can--"

"One Moth can't bring down the Watcher," she said, harshly. "Don't pretend you don't know that."

"No, I - I suppose you're right," he agreed. "One Moth is no match for the Beholding's seat of power."

Daisy stood, her movements deliberate and stilted. She was trying to hide the tremor in her body, but Jon could see it plain as day. She knew he could, but she wouldn't allow herself to acknowledge the weakness of her body in front of him. They were both operating on the assumption that her wolf form would put an abrupt end to any thoughts Jon might be entertaining about escape or any attempts to overpower her. The wolfkin were the only Folk in Faerie powerful enough to kill higher-ranking members of the Courts. To challenge one, even an obviously weakened and feral Hunter, was to gamble with one's life with the odds still disproportionately in the Hunter's favor.

What she didn't hide was the curved blade attached to her waist and the straighter edges latched to her wrists, ankles, and thighs.

"You love him?" she asked.

"Yes," Jon said, his voice breaking on the small yet oh so significant word.

Daisy closed her eyes, her face pinched with regret. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

"Do you want to say goodbye?" she asked.

"You'd let me?"

"Seems cruel not to."

"Jon! What's taking so long?" Martin called. He was too close to the door for Jon to shout any kind of warning or excuse. There was no time to react as Martin walked into the room, unaware of what was about to happen. "I've got lunch ready to go and - Jon! Jon, get back! Get away from them!"

"A word of warning, My Lord," Daisy growled.

"Daisy, please! Please don't hurt him!" Jon shouted.

"You're not welcome in my ho--"

The splintering of wood and the gnashing of teeth were the only sounds that followed.

***

When Martin woke all he could feel was the throbbing headache behind his eyes. He was laid out in his bed, a mug of tea cooling on the side table. Had he made that for himself? He remembered getting lunch ready. Jon was returning from his walk on the shore and...

Jon.

The Hunter.

He sat up quickly, holding down the nausea that surfaced from the movement. He kept his eyes focused on the side table, the mug of tea, and...there was a tape. It was one of Jon's, one of the many he'd insisted on recording despite Martin's improving memory. He reached out, picking up the tape to examine it. There was a piece of paper attached. Scrawled in a frenzied script he recognized as Jon's were three words.

_LISTEN TO ME._


	10. The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Lonely Lord finally visits the Panopticon.

Martin continued to stare at the tape and Jon's instructions for far longer than he wanted to admit. He was afraid. Afraid to hear what was on the tape. Afraid to hear Jon's voice. Afraid that it was the last time he'd ever hear him again. Afraid of what he might do once the message was conveyed. In this moment of indecision he could at least pretend their was hope. But Jon wanted him to listen to this recording. It was important enough to leave behind, so whatever Jon needed to tell him Martin was obligated to listen.

There was a tape recorder set on the side table. Martin placed the tape inside and pressed play. At first it was a lot of fumbling noises and dissatisfied grunts from Jon until he cleared his throat and spoke.

" _I'm sorry, Martin. I'm sorry I got you involved in all of this. I'm sorry that my presence has only hurt you in the long run. But I'm not sorry that I fell in love with you. I'm not sorry that I found a place with you that felt like home. I just...I wish we'd gotten a better ending. It would be wishful thinking to assume happiness, but...I would've liked a happy ending by your side._ "

Martin could hear the emotions welling up in Jon. There was some sniffling and a wet cough before he continued.

" _Daisy's taking me back to the Panopticon. It's - it's for the best. There were other Hunters, other wolfkin, ready to pursue me if she failed. They would have killed you, Martin, and I'd never be able to live with myself if I lost you. At least this way, I'll know you're alive. Or I will for as long as I'm aware of myself. The Watcher will no doubt do to me what he did to Her. There will be nothing left of me, of Jon, save for the memories you carry of me and all that I've committed to tape._

_Please don't forget me, my love. Please continue to sharpen your memories. Read and re-read your books if only to delight in the stories they tell. I know the fog is a tempting comfort, a familiar escape, but please try to remain as you are. You are so much more than what the Forsaken wants of you. You are a beacon of light in the darkness, Martin. Not the Lighthouse. You. And I am forever grateful that I was privileged enough to find that light. Don't let it be snuffed out by the Watcher or the Forsaken Court._

_...Daisy says we need to go now to avoid the other Hunters being deployed._

_I love you, Martin._

_I love you._ "

The tape stopped and Martin felt the tears running freely down his cheeks. He wasn't sure how long he spent staring at Jon's last words, but he was well and truly cried out by the time he felt the fog billowing around his ankles. He could fall into it again, let the pain wash out to sea. He could go back to the way things were before a Moth crashed through the window and changed his life, before he knew a beautiful creature called Jon.

The Forsaken whispered in his ear, in a voice that sounded like Peter's, that it was safer in the fog. No one could hurt him there. No one could break his heart again. All he had to do was drive out the memories and bury them deep, deep within himself. Banish them, destroy them if he must, but they were only causing him more pain. Better to be numb to the world rather than be consumed by heartache.

It would be so easy to forget.

But he didn't want to forget. He didn't want to forget Jon and he wasn't going to let him sacrifice himself to appease the Watcher. To Hell with the Watcher and any other Court who dared stand in his way!

He was going to get Jon back.

The fog receded in the wake of his determination, though he could still feel it teasing at his ankles; could still hear it's delicate, subtle whispers in his ears. Martin knew the fog and the Forsaken could never be driven away entirely, but he was pleased with how much it could be abated. However much his loneliness and isolation were self-inflicted he was grateful to know how much control he truly wielded over his domain even in his lowest moments.

Wiping away his tears, Martin knew he needed to get to the Panopticon quickly. He couldn't risk the time dilation of Faerie through approved modes of transportation. The difference between arriving within hours, days, or years of Jon was too fine a line. He needed a way to traverse the very nature of Faerie.

He needed a Door.

Rushing into the storage closet, he found the can of yellow paint safely tucked away behind the heavy rain gear and pixie repellent. Grabbing the can and a brush he hurried to the Lighthouse's front entrance and began to paint the door. It was a last ditch means of transportation for higher-ranking members of any Court. One couldn't completely trust the Twisted Paths, but sometimes the Maze was the lesser of two evils, depending on the circumstances by which you needed to escape. When he'd finished coating the door in yellow, he took a knife and carved a spiral into the wood, closing his eyes to guard against the rough splinters that slashed his face. When he was satisfied with the symbol, he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and...

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He waited and waited and waited. It was all he could do. Calling upon the _limen_ , spirits of doorways and thresholds, was one thing. They still had to answer and none of their Folk were beholden to anyone's schedule but their own. They could not and would not be rushed. Knocking more than three times was more likely to annoy them than entice them to your door. They were easily offended and, like the Hunters, their sharp edges were not so easily ignored should you find one piercing your flesh.

It was better to wait and so he waited. Another hour passed before he felt the air change, before he could feel the building energy of power approaching. Few understood the magic and magnitude of thresholds the way the Twisting Court did. Martin had always tried to find some commonality between himself and members of the other Courts, but he found himself more in awe of those who followed the winding and deceitful halls. They were Folk who deserved respect and he tried his hardest never to offend or draw their ire. Hopefully, even with his request, he could keep on somewhat positive terms.

**_KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK._ **

He felt the response vibrating down to his bones, shocking his heart enough to skip a beat. He heard the door unlatch and watched it open from the outside. Instead of the mist and fog gliding along the open sea, Martin saw a vibrantly lit hallway of doors similar to the one he'd created. The sound of echoing laughter assaulted his ears and the _lima_ who'd opened the door stood between him and his chance to reach Jon.

She was all curves and coils meshed together to form the shape of a female figure, but even then the slightest movement or a quick blink would alter the image. Martin might've said her hair was curly but seconds later that would no longer be true. She might have long, springy fingers that would abruptly shift into sharp, pointed knives. She might have eyes clear as crystal that bulged from her face until they were replaced by a new, random color. Her smile, though, it stayed plastered to what constituted a head regardless of the shape. There was no world in which Martin would ever be able to wash that smile from his mind. It was sinister in its delight as her razor-sharp teeth dripped with curiosity.

" ** _To what do I owe the honor of your call, My Lord?_** **"** she asked.

Martin took another deep breath before responding, "I'm in need of a Door. I wish to travel to the Panopticon as quickly as possible."

She stared at him for far longer than he was comfortable with. As comforting and intense as Jon's stare was, the _lima's_ was unsettling in its interest. She stretched her body forward, looking him over, watching his reactions as she defied the boundaries of her own body and Martin's personal space.

" ** _And what would cause the Lonely Lord such haste to visit tomes and scrolls already decaying under the gaze of the Watcher?_** "

He hesitated to answer, but there was no point in lying to threshold spirit. There was no point in lying to anyone about his plans.

"There's a Moth. His name is Jon. I love him. I want him to come home and if I have to go to the Panopticon to get him, then that's what I intend to do," he said, firmly.

The _lima_ gasped happily, her body turning and twisting into the shape of a heart with her face and elongated neck occupying the middle.

" ** _I do love a good romantic tragedy!_** **"** she exclaimed. " ** _May I witness your happy reunion? Not that you'll actually see me, but I can't get enough of couples finding each other in the face of adversity!_** "

"Umm, I suppose that's alright," Martin said. At this point he'd agree to anything to move negotiations along.

" ** _Then we're in agreement! Enter and be Protected Beyond my Door and Within my Halls as we travel to the Eye's Panopticon!_** "

Trying not to regret his decision, Martin gave a weary smile as he passed through the doorway. It was only after he heard the door shut behind him that he felt a boost of energy pushing him forward through the endless corridor. Each step brought him closer to Jon and he was ready to walk this path for as long as possible. The journey would be the journey as long as it ended with Jon once again in his arms.

***

In the time that he'd been the Lonely Lord, Martin had only ever heard stories about the awe-inspiring Panopticon. The Seat of the Beholding Court, the Watcher's Throne where he would observe all of Faerie. In the stories, the Watcher was traditionally referred to or described as devoid of any true form but preferred to fashion itself as a great Eye for its own amusement. Some speculated it was a quirk of his mysterious Folk. Others noted it was little more than an intimidation tactic. Standing in the lobby of such a massive building, Martin couldn't help but agree with the latter argument. 

There was a bronze and copper tinge to the walls and marbled flooring. Everywhere appeared to be a reflective surface, like walking on metallic water. Each step was unmistakably audible, mixing with the hum of echoing voices that made the area seem livelier than at first glance. There was music on the air as well, a lulling melody that settled like a comforting blanket of manufactured relaxation or as a welcome distraction from the overwhelming sense of insignificance the place inspired. No doubt there was some work by the Fallen Titan incorporated into the architecture. The vaulted ceiling was stately and powerful in its enormity, causing more than one occasion of Folk bumping into each other out of mutual fascination with the craftsmanship. There were unmistakable patterns of webbing and fractals spread around the walls, floors, ceilings, and windows that appeared to be in opposition to one another but were likely working together to ward against the Weavers and the Twisting, respectively. The wards needed updating, apparently, otherwise Martin knew he'd be stuck in a wall somewhere or forcefully barred from entering the premises. That didn't mean he wasn't still subject to some humiliation upon entering.

The _lima's_ door practically spit him out into the vast space at the base of the Panopticon with only an echoing laugh in the back of his mind as a reminder of her continued presence. There were dozens of Folk already milling about, asking questions at the front desk or meeting up with friends and colleagues for a pleasant day of research and reading. None of them seemed to notice Martin's awkward arrival and he wasn't sure if that was because of the Forsaken's particular brand of magic or if no one wanted to comment on a Lord of the Court's clumsiness to his face.

He spotted at least three Moths standing in key positions to offer assistance. Two of them still had a spark of life in them while the other looked dull and out of place. Their antennae drooped miserably in front of their face and, when asked a question, their answers were slow and monotonous as if they were reading from a script instead of answering naturally. He tried to shake off the dreadful feeling hanging over his head, but it stuck to him as surely as the fog rippled beneath his feet.

He didn't bother with the front desk. He decided to go to the first logical place he could think of finding Jon. Hurrying into the elevator, he practically broke his finger pressing the button for the Section J, the doors closing with a general apathy to his obvious urgency. He tapped his feet impatiently as the elevator rose at a snail's pace, the ding of the arriving bell muted from centuries of use. Again the doors mocked his need for swiftness. Giving up on any semblance of composure, Martin squeezed through the doors once he was certain their was enough room to fit through.

Each step reverberated as he moved between rows upon rows upon rows of shelves filled to the brim with books, manuscripts, tomes, scrolls, and all manner of collected writings. One any other day, in an other life, he'd have welcomed the opportunity to lose himself in this dragon's hoard of knowledge. But that wasn't his mission today. He let his eyes flit and flicker down each row before moving on. If there wasn't a Moth with the markings of an owl on his wings, then he wasn't interested.

He wasn't aware of how much time passed during his search. All he knew was there was a Moth standing at the end of a row, his back turned to Martin, putting a book back in its proper place. He was the same height and build as he'd been the last time Martin had seen him. His wings were still patterned like an owl's feathers with bright, brilliant eye markings hanging a little past his ankles. Martin approached cautiously, waiting for someone to jump out of the shadows to fight him on behalf of the Watcher. No one came. There was only the sound of his footsteps on the floor. The Moth didn't move from his position and Martin dared to hope as he reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Jon?"

The face was as he remembered, brown skin, heavy brow, and an elegant nose. But the emerald eyes that once gleamed with life and annoyance and love were a dull, pale green peeking through the drooping antennae. There was no recognition, no spark of memory when he turned.

Instead, he asked, in a monotone that devastated Martin's heart:

"Hello. How may I be of service?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think one more chapter and I'll be done with this one.
> 
> Am I mean? Yes.  
> Will there be a happy ending? Also yes. 
> 
> Fear not! I have a plan!


	11. If We Shadows Have Offended...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which an Ending Occurs.

Martin couldn't keep the tears at bay. There was no recognition in Jon's eyes, no hint of the Moth he'd fallen for in his Lighthouse on the Pale Sea. In front of him was a servant of the Beholding Court, a spark of curiosity and wonder snuffed out before he even had a chance to explore his true potential. All because the Watcher was unwilling to share power or knowledge with those who would make the most use of it.

Even with those thoughts racing through his mind, Martin couldn't help but reach for Jon's shoulders, pressing his fingers into soft skin without realizing the strength of his grip. "Jon...Jon, please...please."

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific about your query," Jon responded, confusion hovering around his eyes. "The Panopticon offers works by author Jonathan Swift, the book Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke; or are you interested in the jonquil, also known as the rush daffodil? I can also find information for you about jonnycakes, a cornmeal based flatbread common to North America."

Martin shook his head, imploring with his watery eyes for a miracle. "Please, Jon, it's me. It's Martin."

The confusion remained. "If you're looking for references to the marten, often referred to as the pine marten or the American marten, you need to go up three floors to the M sections. Or, I can set you up in a reading room once you've made a formal request."

It broke him to hear the droll formality of Jon's words. Even as he cried, Jon did nothing to pull away or offer comfort. He simply waited for Martin to be done with his inquiry with no sense of self preservation or individual need. He was a blank slate save for the ability to know everything about Faerie and beyond.

"I'm sorry you had to see this," said a voice from behind. Martin turned to see a tall, male Moth with broad shoulders, tan skin, and sad but kind eyes. His wings were reddish brown with triangular patterns of white, black, and a hint of pink that sat on his shoulders like a long, stately cape; his antenna were robust, resembling branches from a tree rather than the fluffy curls that Jon sported. Given what he'd learned from Jon in there time together, Martin could only assume this Moth was Him, the one from Jon's story.

"You're--?"

"Tim," he said, offering one of his hands.

Confused and a little wary, Martin shook his hand quickly but kept a defensive position between Jon and the other Moth. "Tim?"

He nodded. "Chose it myself after he came back. He told me about you. Martin, right? Lonely Lord in the domain of the Forsaken Court?"

"Y-yes," Martin said. Tim nodded, his smile not quite meeting his eyes.

"Yeah. Come with me," he said. He looked over Martin's shoulder at Jon. "I'll take it from here, mate."

"Thank you for your assistance." Jon nodded happily, a job well done as far as he was concerned. He turned to Martin and said, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Martin wanted to respond, but felt the words die on his tongue as Tim led him away. They walked past the rows upon rows of ancient and recent literature until he realized they were on a far less ornate elevator towards the far end of the building. Tim pressed the lowest button and within several minutes they were walking down a dimly lit corridor of bare and crumbling walls. Tim guided him to a large communal space where many Moths were gathered, some milling about independently while others were snuggled together in nesting groups. There was a mix of Moths unaffected by the Watcher's memory pillaging and those who showed obvious signs of his meddling. Martin could only imagine what they'd done to deserve such treatment.

Tim led Martin further in until they were in a private nesting room. Sitting in the corner, loosely wrapped in a blanket she barely acknowledged was a female Moth with the same blank stare as Jon's. This was Her, the ornate Moth that set their story in motion. She was beautiful; tightly curled black hair in braids that hung past her shoulders, skin a few shades darker than Jon's, and inky black eyes that might have been mischievous once. Her wings were a dazzling shade of pinkish-orange with black dots ringed in white and antennae that resembled coiled twigs.

"Hey, Sasha," Tim said, his voice hushed and soothing. She didn't notice their presence until Tim gently touched her chin and she looked up to meet his eyes. A hint of a smile tugged at her lips, but was gone just as quickly. Tim turned back to Martin, his eyes a mirror of sadness and despair. "I chose it for her. Figured she'd like it. Doesn't change anything though. She's still gone and now Jon's..."

"How long has it been since he was brought back?" Martin asked.

"Three weeks," Tim said. "They let him stay himself, tortured him with hope before they took him away."

"I was too late," Martin said, sinking to the floor.

"He talked about you, a lot," Tim said as he sat in front of him. "Wouldn't shut up, actually. I didn't have the heart to stop him. He seemed so happy whenever he said your name. A proper fairy tale romance come to life. Until the end."

"I don't know what to do," Martin said as he wiped at his eyes and nose. " I can't - I can't leave him here. I don't...I can't just move on without him."

"It's probably for the best," Tim said, his eyes hardening. "You don't want to end up like me. Trust me."

"Could I - what if I took him back to the Lighthouse? The Watcher's done with him, right? There's nothing left to covet," Martin said. He flinched at the desperation in his voice, but there were so few options to latch on to.

"So now you want to steal from the Watcher? And you're plotting it in his own seat of power? Bold of you, my Lord," Tim said sarcastically. Martin glared at him, but he could feel the fog tightening around his ankles, tugging him towards the closest exit. He pushed it away, uninterested in what little comfort it had to offer.

"There's no claim on Jon, on any of you," Martin said. "You're Faerie Folk with every right to travel the lands as everyone else."

Tim gave a derisive snort. "Easier said than done, my Lord. Jon may have found his prince beneath a blanket of mist, but where do you think the rest of us could go to hide from the Watcher's gaze, huh? This is about survival, plain and simple. Jon didn't understand that until it was too late. It would have been more of a kindness if you'd let him die in the Lighthouse!"

"How dare you--!"

"How dare you!" Tim shouted, leaping to his full height. "Did you think you were going to rescue him and be done with it? Do you think the Watcher would've let you? How naive are you?"

"I love him," Martin said in a strong but raspy whisper.

"That doesn't mean anything," Tim said bitterly.

Martin stared him down despite being the one on the floor. He met Tim's eyes, unblinking, unflinching and said, "It means everything."

Tim continued to stand in place, trying and failing to hide how much Martin's resolve and his words shook him. There was a war happening behind his eyes until he turned away and began searching through a wooden chest pushed up against the wall. When he faced Martin again he was holding a tape player and one of Jon's tapes.

"This was the last thing he recorded before they took him," Tim said. "He asked me to give it to you when you showed up."

"He - he said _when_?" Martin asked.

Tim nodded, letting out a wet laugh as more tears welled up. "Bastard was certain you'd come. I didn't believe it until I saw you, so...these are for you."

Martin took the two items and nearly burst into more tears himself when he looked at Jon's familiar script written on the tape that read:

_MAKE ME LISTEN_

_***_

They'd considered waiting until Jon returned to the nesting room after his shift on the floor, but Martin was too eager to wait that long. If Jon left behind a tape for himself, then he knew it was important enough to bring it to the Moth as soon as possible. Tim reluctantly followed, but continually stopped to survey their path for anyone he thought posed a threat. They were in the Watcher's domain about to do something that could likely be interpreted as an act of war by the Forsaken. Whatever spies were in place to report back to the Watcher, Tim was poised to identify and subdue them before they got the chance.

Jon was stood in the exact spot they'd left him, staring at the shelves as he waited to be of service to someone. It was unnerving to see him so still and silent. Martin practically sprinted the last steps towards the Moth, angling his body to get Jon's attention. Jon noticed and turned, still lacking the recognition Martin ached for.

"Hello, how may I be of service?" Jon asked in the same tone, with the same inflection as he had previously. It didn't even register to him that he'd spoken with Martin within the last hour. All he saw was a patron of the Panopticon with an inquiry.

"I - I have something for you," Martin said.

Jon's antennae coiled back against his head, a combination of confusion and fear. "For me? I don't understand."

"Just listen, Jon," Martin said. The air felt thin in the space of a breath. There was the feeling of the walls expanding and contracting as if the building was gasping at the audacity of what Martin was about to do. He could sense the anger and outrage as the Watcher's gaze - thousands upon thousands of eyes - turned on him all at once. Pressure began building in his mind, a dull ache that grew to spikes of pain behind his eyes. The Watcher was reaching for something, slashing through the memories to find anything worthy of exploiting. He wouldn't find it. Not here, not now while he fought for Jon's life. The Moth stared in open distress at Martin's shaking body, beads of sweat shimmering on his brow as he pushed back against the Watcher's internal attack.

Even as he sank to the floor in pain, Martin pressed play, filling the room with Jon's voice.

" _Well, let's hope this works...If you're listening to this, Jon, then I'm certain you'll at least recognize the sound of your own voice. You are not just a Moth in Section J. You are Jon. The name was given to you by the man standing in front of you, the man you love. His name is Martin and I'm willing to bet, if he's there, that he's having a hard time of it right now because the Watcher is trying to hollow out his mind for the offense of daring to love you and, for lack of a better term, rescue you._

_But Martin can't provide that rescue, Jon. You have to do it yourself because...I don't think you're as far gone as you've been led to believe. I think you know there's something wrong, something not quite right because every so often you get a glimpse of who you were before the Watcher suppressed your memories. He 'graciously' gave me time to hope for my knight in foggy armor to come for me, let me say my last goodbye to H - Tim and H - Sasha. I spent my time with Sasha the most, talking to her again, searching for the Moth I once knew. And I saw her, ever so briefly. The light would come back in her eyes and she'd smile at me like we were old friends reunited after years spent apart. She'd come so close to speaking, saying something real, before the Watcher's magic suppressed her mind once again._

_So I know and now **you** know that this magic can be overcome. It is not absolute or all encompassing. You only need to find the cracks in the wall he's built around your mind. Feel them out, grab on and rend them from the foundation._"

The Watcher's pull lifted in one quick motion, as if a hand had reached in and slapped it away. Opening his eyes, Martin saw the face of the Moth he loved staring at him with glowing emerald eyes on the cusp of a profound understanding. Jon was doing as the tape said, looking for the cracks and fighting his way to surface of his own mind.

"Jon!" Martin said, hoping the sound of his voice might help in the endeavor. "Come back to me, love! Please!"

" _If you find yourself faltering, if it seems pointless to search for what isn't there, then know this, Jon: you recorded so much in the Lighthouse. You put memories to tape because you didn't want to forget. At first, it was a counter to the effects of the Forsaken's domain, but then it turned into your fail safe. The tapes exist and they are everything you became while at the Lighthouse. They are your love for Martin, they are your self-discovery, and they are your salvation. Search for them, Jon. Reach out and take them back and build your own foundation, one that the Watcher can never dismantle. They are not lost. **You** are not lost, Jon._"

The emerald glow increased as Jon's voice continued to inform and direct. Martin watched the familiar transformation: elongated limbs, wings fluttering so rapidly he appeared to be floating, and a smattering of eyes opening across Jon's face, neck and upper body. The light increased, blinding Martin to everything but Jon. He could see the Moth's face contorting in long stretches of confusion, pain, and anger until the voice on the tape was drowned out by the feral scream of a Moth betrayed and enraged.

The sonic boom of Jon's fury shattered every window, the force of it pushing Martin back against the shelving. Solid hands grabbed him and he startled at the touch until he realized it was Tim offering a steady anchor of support.

"Not exactly how I saw this going," Tim said. "You?"

"I've come to expect the unexpected with Jon," Martin responded.

"Then that's something we have in co--" Tim's antennae lit up with the same green glow emanating from Jon. Chancing a glance around the room, Martin could see spots of green where every Moth was standing. Their antennae were vibrating, a low hum that hung in the air like a comforting heart beat.

The tape was still going and it seemed Jon wasn't done saving himself, or his Folk.

"... _Show them what they can be, what they're capable of. They only need you to be the light through the fog. Martin taught you that. Show them how to fight back. Show them how powerful they are and who made them believe they were inferior._ "

All at once, the Moths in the room, and Martin could only assume throughout the Panopticon, changed as Jon had. Their multitude of eyes glowed with understanding and power as the building around them seemed to shrink in awe, the walls trembling beneath the weight of unchecked Knowing. From below and above, Martin could hear the shattering of more windows, the ceilings and floors buckling helplessly under the Watcher's loss of control.

One by one, the Moths descended, changing again to what could be assumed as their normal forms. Martin gave Tim a questioning pat on the shoulder, checking that he was alright. A smile, deep and knowing, formed and Tim nodded despite swaying a bit as he righted himself. Martin moved over to Jon, approaching with caution as the Moth slowly floated to the floor. The glow faded and Martin held his breath. There were only two eyes staring at him, two shining emerald eyes filled with tears cascading down his beautiful brown skin.

"Martin..." Jon gasped, his four arms reaching out, wrapping around Martin in a thankful embrace. Martin fell into the hug with a similarly tearful gasp, wishing for an extra set of arms of his own, anything to allow him to hold more of Jon securely and forever. He felt the tickle of Jon's antennae ghosting across his head, the lively spark of knowledge and love causing a second wave of emotions to wash over him as he tightened his hold in response to Jon's timid search for connection.

"I'm sorry," Jon mumbled into his neck. "I'm so sorry. I didn't - didn't explain. I left you. I left you alone, Martin. I'm sorry--"

Martin cut him off with a kiss, trying his best to show there was nothing to forgive. They were together and that's all that mattered.

When the kiss ended, Martin pushed their foreheads together, breathing in the smell of sea salt and stone, of tea and a crackling fire, of lavender and warm sugar. "You knew I'd come for you."

"No," Jon said, shaking his head. "I hoped."

Martin smiled. "Might've been awkward if Tim played the tape for you given the bulk of your speech."

"We'll say my hope was strongly in your favor," Jon chuckled.

There was a rush of wings from behind that sent Tim running past them, his eyes alight with disbelief.

"Love!" shouted a female voice. Jon turned, keeping at least two hands on Martin's waist, renewed tears of joy spilling over as Tim embraced Sasha, their antennae coiling together as he kissed her passionately.

"You - you're you!" Tim said. "Sasha..."

She cupped his cheek, her smile ebbing in confusion. "What's...? Sasha?"

"Oh, sorry! Um, I'm Tim now," he said, then pointed at Jon. "He's Jon. I chose Sasha for you."

"A name? You gave me a name?"

"Do you not like it?" Tim asked timidly.

"No...I love it!" she exclaimed, kissing him again. Breaking away once they were thoroughly breathless, she noticed Jon and Martin. Dragging Tim with her, she threw her arms around Jon, coiling their antennae in a similar fashion. There was no passionate kiss this time, though. She understood that something had changed. "You showed me the way out, Lo - Jon. Thank you."

"I'm just glad you came back," Jon said. He edged Martin closer. "This is Martin, by the way. He's my...my Martin."

"And he's a very lovely Martin," Sasha said. She nodded her head, but Martin gave her the silent confirmation that he was a hugger and she fully embraced him with a gleeful sigh. "I'm very glad you found him."

"He found me, actually," Martin said. "Literally crashed through my window."

"That...that sounds about right," she said.

"Which means you have stories about him, don't you? Martin asked. He looked at Tim. "Both of you!"

"Oh no, " Jon breathed.

"We have **all** of the stories," Tim said.

***

When the buzz of excitement and upheaval finally waned, Martin and Jon found themselves sitting against a fallen bookshelf digging through the scattered tomes for potential candidates to take back to the Lighthouse. Jon insisted they return to the Pale Sea, that he had no love for the Panopticon even after setting the other Moths free.

"What do you think will happen to this place?" Martin asked, indicating the entire building.

Jon shrugged, tossing a weighty book to the side. The taste of ink on his tongue was bitter and unoriginal. "I'm not sure. The Watcher...still exists, but he's fainter. Less corporeal. It's possible the other domains will attempt to seize power. Or, more likely, the Moths will reclaim the only home they've ever known and make something better out of it." He sighed. "Do we still have that hibiscus tea at the Lighthouse?"

"You staged a coup and you're worried about what tea we have?" Martin asked.

"In all fairness, the coup's over. I still don't know about the tea," Jon said. Martin reached over, guiding Jon's lips to his. How could he not kiss this ridiculous Moth?

"What if...what if we didn't go back to the Lighthouse?" Martin asked. "I don't think I'll be as welcome in the Forsaken. Can't exactly be the Lonely Lord when you're not lonely anymore. I'm not so sure we'd be safe from the Watcher's revenge or agents of other domains if we went anywhere in Faerie."

"Where would we go?"

"Well, I was thinking...what about the human world?"

"Do you think we'd be any safer there?"

"Can't be any worse," Martin said. "But we could build something new there. No Beholding or Forsaken rules to bind us. Just...you and me."

"I'd have to glamor myself entirely," Jon said. "Wings, arms, antennae...my uncanny intelligence."

Martin chuckled. "Is that possible? I mean, will it cost you anything to go for a full body glamor?"

"No, I think I'll be alright," Jon said. He gave Martin's hand a firm squeeze before closing his eyes in concentration. There was a shimmer of magic and sitting before him was the human version of Jon. No wings or antennae and one set of arms, though his eyes remained the same stunning shade of emerald. Martin waved a hand around Jon's head, a frown gracing his features until he felt the faint touch of invisible fluffy antennae curl around his finger. A single thought was transferred through the connection.

"Let's go on an adventure," it said.

"I think we need a few things before we go," Jon said out loud.

"Like money and a place to live?" Martin asked.

Jon paused thoughtfully before nodding. "In addition to that, humans have surnames, correct? Do you remember yours?"

"I'd...rather not use that one. Too many bad memories," Martin said. Jon squeezed his hand again in silent support. "But, you said I was born in the Schwarzwald, right?"

"Yes, the Black Forest region of Germany," Jon confirmed. "The state of Baden-Württemberg to be exact."

Martin was quiet again, deep in thought for several minutes before his decision was made.

"I suppose...I'll be Martin Blackwood then," he said.

Jon smiled. "That's a lovely name and a worthy tribute."

"Alright, what about you?" Martin asked.

"I guess that would make me Jonathan Blackwood, right?"

"Jonathan...Blackwood?"

"Is that not correct?"

"Well I don't mind, but the - the other humans would assume..."

"Yes?"

"That we're married," Martin said.

Jon nodded. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

Martin couldn't stop the dopey, lovesick smile from forming. "Yes."

"Alright, all things considered, I think we're ready to go," Jon said as he grabbed a pile of books in only his visible hands. He frowned at the paltry sum. "This is going to take some getting used to, isn't it?"

Martin offered his hand again, forcing Jon to drop more books in order to take it. "We'll figure it out. I suppose the last thing we'll need is a way out of Faerie."

There was a knock from behind them, loud and booming.

A yellow door with a spiral carved into the wood waited patiently.

Another kiss and Martin gave a responding KNOCK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!!!
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading! I'm typically lurking in the RQ discord server, but you can also find me on Twitter @darling_sammy and you can visit my website, POP Archives at www.pop-archives.com to read about how archives and archivists are depicted in pop culture!


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